JTOR  LUKE 

The  L4B&4DOK 

^-  .  -  •* 


i 


(      III!!  i 


HI 


NORMAN  DUNCAN 


DOCTOR     LUKE 
of  THE  LABRADOR 


' '  - 


by     NORMAN      DUNCAN 


FLEMING  H.  RESELL  COMPANT 

Publisliers 


Copyright,    1904,  by 
FLEMING  H.   REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  63  Washington  Street 
Toronto:  27  Richmond  Street,  W 
London :  2 1  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  30  St.  Mary  Street 


To 

My  Own  Mother 

and  to 
her  granddaughter 

Elspeth 

my  niece 


A  .._s>. 


To  the  Reader 

HOWEVER    bleak    the    Labrador— however 
naked     and    desolate    that    shore — flo\vers 
bloom    upon    it.      However    bitter    the    de 
spoiling  sea — however  cold  and  rude  and  merciless 
— the    gentler    virtues    flourish   in  the  hearts  of  the 
folk.     .     .      .     And  the  glory  of  the  coast — and  the 
glory    of   the   whole  world — is   mother-love:    which 
began  in  the  beginning  and  has  continued  unchanged 
to  this  present  time — the  conspicuous  beauty  of  the 
fabric  of  life  :  the  great  constant  of  the  problem. 

N.  D. 

College  Campus, 

Washington,  Pennsylvania, 

October  /j>,  1904. 


Contents 

I.  Our  Harbour  .                     .  13 

II.  The  World  from  the  Watchman  .        17 

III.  In  the  Haven  of  Her  Arms  .        29 

IV.  The  Shadow    .  35 

V.  Mary      ....  48 

VI.  The  Man  on  the  Mail  Boat  .  .                  57 

VII.  The  Woman  from  Wolf  Cove  .          .        70 

VIII.  The  Blind  and  the  Blind    .  79 

IX.  A  Wreck  on  the  Thirty  Devils  .  .        89 

X.  The  Flight        ,  .102 

XI.  The  Women  at  the  Gate    .  .  I  10 

XII.  Doctor  and  I    .          .          .  .  .                i  1 5 

XIII.  A  Smiling  Face          .          .  ,  .          .125 

XIV.  In  the  Watches  of  the  Night  .  .                133 

XV.  The  Wolf        ...  .      138 

XVI.  A  Malady  of  the  Heart      .  .      1 50 

XVII.  Hard  Practice  ...  .      167 

XVIII.  Skipper  Tommy  Gets  a  Letter  .  .          .182 

XIX.  The  Fate  of  the  Mail-Boat  Doctor       .          .      191 

XX.  Christmas  Eve  at  Topmast  Tickle        „          .      202 


12 


CONTENTS 


XXI.  Down  North    . 

XXil.  The  Way  from  Heart's  Delight 

XXIII.  The  Course  of  True  Love 

XXIV.  The  Beginning  of"  the  End 
XXV7.  A  Capital  Crime 

XXVI.  Decoyed 

XXVII.  The  Day  of  the  Dog 

XXVIII.  In  Harbour 


219 

222 

239 
258 
265 
287 

3°5 

•  20 


OUR  HARBOUR 


DOCTOR     LUKE 

of  THE   LABRADOR 

i 

OUR    HARBOUR 

A  CLUSTER  of  islands,  lying  off  the  cape, 
made  the  shelter  of  our  harbour.  They  were 
but  great  rocks,  gray,  ragged,  wet  with  fog 
and  surf,  rising  bleak  and  barren  out  of  a  sea  that 
forever  fretted  a  thousand  miles  of  rocky  coast  as 
barren  and  as  sombre  and  as  desolate  as  they ;  but 
they  broke  wave  and  wind  unfailingly  and  with  vast 
unconcern — they  were  of  old  time,  mighty,  steadfast, 
remote  from  the  rage  of  weather  and  the  changing 
mood  of  the  sea,  surely  providing  safe  shelter  for  us 
folk  of  the  coast — and  we  loved  them,  as  true  men, 
everywhere,  love  home. 

"  Tis  the  cleverest  harbour  on  the  Labrador ! " 
said  we. 

When  the  wind  was  in  the  northeast — when  it 
broke,  swift  and  vicious,  from  the  sullen  waste  of 
water  beyond,  whipping  up  the  grey  sea,  driving  in 

13 


14        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  Tne  LABRADOR 

the  vagrant  ice,  spreading  clammy  mist  over  the 
reefs  and  rocky  headlands  of  the  long  coast — our 
harbour  lay  unruffled  in  the  lee  of  God's  Warning. 
Skull  Island  and  a  shoulder  of  God's  Warning  broke 
the  winds  from  the  north  :  the  froth  of  the  breakers, 
to  be  sure,  came  creeping  through  the  north  tickle, 
when  the  sea  was  high  ;  but  no  great  wave  from  the 
open  ever  disturbed  the  quiet  water  within.  We 
were  fended  from  the  southerly  gales  by  the  massive, 
beetling  front  of  the  Isle  of  Good  Promise,  which, 
grandly  unmoved  by  their  fuming  rage,  turned  them 
up  into  the  black  sky,  where  they  went  screaming 
northward,  high  over  the  heads  of  the  white  houses 
huddled  in  the  calm  below ;  and  the  seas  they  brought 
— gigantic,  breaking  seas — went  to  waste  on  Raven 
Rock  and  the  Reef  of  the  Thirty  Black  Devils,  ere, 
their  strength  spent,  they  growled  over  the  jagged 
rocks  at  the  base  of  the  great  cliffs  of  Good  Promise 
and  came  softly  swelling  through  the  broad  south 
tickle  to  the  basin.  The  west  wind  came  out  of  the 
wilderness,  fragrant  of  the  far-off  forest,  lying  un 
known  and  dread  in  the  inland,  from  which  the 
mountains,  bold  and  blue  and  forbidding,  lifted  high 
their  heads  ;  and  the  mist  was  then  driven  back  into 
the  gloomy  seas  of  the  east,  and  the  sun  was  out, 
shining  warm  and  yellow,  and  the  sea,  lying  in  the 
lee  of  the  land,  was  all  aripple  and  aflash. 


OUR    HARBOUR  15 

When  the  spring  gales  blew — the  sea  being  yet 
white  with  drift-ice — the  schooners  of  the  Newfound 
land  fleet,  bound  north  to  the  fishing,  often  came 
scurrying  into  our  harbour  for  shelter.  And  when 
the  skippers,  still  dripping  the  spray  of  the  gale 
from  beard  and  sou'wester,  came  ashore  for  a  yarn 
and  an  hospitable  glass  with  my  father,  the  trader, 
many  a  tale  of  wind  and  wreck  and  far-away  har 
bours  I  heard,  while  we  sat  by  the  roaring  stove  in 
my  father's  little  shop :  such  as  those  which  began, 
"  Well,  'twas  the  wonderfullest  gale  o'  wind  you  ever 
seed — snowin'  an'  blowin',  with  the  sea  in  mountains, 
an'  it  as  black  as  a  wolf's  throat — an'  we  was  some- 
wheres  off  Cape  Mugford.  She  were  drivin'  with  a 
nor'east  gale,  with  the  shore  somewheres  handy  t' 
le'ward.  But,  look !  nar  a  one  of  us  knowed  where 
she  were  to,  'less  'twas  in  the  thick  o'  the  Black 
Heart  Reefs.  .  .  ."  Stout,  hearty  fellows  they 
were  who  told  yarns  like  these — thick  and  broad 
about  the  chest  and  lanky  below,  long-armed,  ham 
mer-fisted,  with  frowsy  beards,  bushy  brows,  and 
clear  blue  eyes,  which  were  fearless  and  quick  to 
look. 

"  Tis  a  fine  harbour  you  got  here,  Skipper  David 
Roth,"  they  would  say  to  my  father,  when  it  came 
time  to  go  aboard,  "  an'  here,  zur,"  raising  the  last 
glass,  "  is  t'  the  rocks  that  make  it !  " 


1 6        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  T  the  schooners  they  shelter  !  "  my  father  would 
respond. 

When  the  weather  turned  civil,  I  would  away  to 
the  summit  of  the  Watchman — a  scamper  and  a  mad 
climb — to  watch  the  doughty  little  schooners  on 
their  way.  And  it  made  my  heart  swell  and  flutter 
to  see  them  dig  their  noses  into  the  swelling  seas — 
to  watch  them  heel  and  leap  and  make  the  white 
dust  fly — to  feel  the  rush  of  the  wet  wind  that  drove 
them — to  know  that  the  grey  path  of  a  thousand 
miles  was  every  league  of  the  way  beset  with  peril. 
Brave  craft !  Stout  hearts  to  sail  them !  It  thrilled 
me  to  watch  them  beating  up  the  suddy  coast,  lying 
low  and  black  in  the  north,  and  through  the  leaden, 
ice-strewn  seas,  with  the  murky  night  creeping  in 
from  the  open.  I,  too,  would  be  the  skipper  of  a 
schooner,  and  sail  with  the  best  of  them ! 

"  A  schooner  an'  a  wet  deck  for  me ! "  thought  I. 

And  I  loved  our  harbour  all  the  more  for  that. 

Thus,  our  harbour  lay,  a  still,  deep  basin,  in  the 
shelter  of  three  islands  and  a  cape  of  the  mainland : 
and  we  loved  it,  drear  as  it  was,  because  we  were 
born  there  and  knew  no  kinder  land ;  and  we  boasted 
it,  in  all  the  harbours  of  the  Labrador,  because  it  was 
a  safe  place,  whatever  the  gale  that  blew. 


II 

The    WORLD   From   The    WATCHMAN 

THE  Watchman  was  the  outermost  headland 
of  our  coast  and  a  landmark  from  afar — a 
great  gray  hill  on  the  point  of  Good  Promise 
by  the  Gate ;  our  craft,  running  in  from  the  Hook-an'- 
Line  grounds  off  Raven  Rock,  rounded  the  Watch 
man  and  sped  thence  through  the  Gate  and  past 
Frothy  Point  into  harbour.  It  was  bold  and  bare — 
scoured  by  the  weather — and  dripping  wet  on  days 
when  the  fog  hung  thick  and  low.  It  fell  sharply  to 
the  sea  by  way  of  a  weather-beaten  cliff,  in  whose 
high  fissures  the  gulls,  wary  of  the  hands  of  the  lads  of 
the  place,  wisely  nested ;  and  within  the  harbour  it 
rose  from  Trader's  Cove,  where,  snug  under  a  broken 
cliff,  stood  our  house  and  the  little  shop  and  storehouse 
and  the  broad  drying-flakes  and  the  wharf  and  fish- 
stages  of  my  father's  business.  From  the  top  there 
was  a  far,  wide  outlook — all  sea  and  rock  :  along  the 
ragged,  treeless  coast,  north  and  south,  to  the  haze 
wherewith,  in  distances  beyond  the  ken  of  lads,  it 
melted;  and  upon  the  thirty  wee  white  houses  of  our 
folk,  scattered  haphazard  about  the  harbour  water, 

'7 


i8   DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

each  in  its  own  little  cove  and  each  with  its  own 
little  stage  and  great  flake ;  and  over  the  barren, 
swelling  rock  beyond,  to  the  blue  wilderness,  lying 
infinitely  far  away. 

I  shuddered  when  from  the  Watchman  I  looked 
upon  the  wilderness. 

"  Tis  a  dreadful  place,"  I  had  heard  my  father  say. 
"  Men  starves  in  there." 

This  I  knew  to  be  true,  for,  once,  I  had  seen  the 
face  of  a  man  who  came  crawling  out. 

"  The  sea  is  kinder,"  I  thought. 

Whether  so  or  not,  I  was  to  prove,  at  least,  that 
the  wilderness  was  cruel. 

One  blue  day,  when  the  furthest  places  on  sea 
and  land  lay  in  a  thin,  still  haze,  my  mother  and 
I  went  to  the  Watchman  to  romp.  There  was 
place  there  for  a  merry  gambol,  place,  even,  led 
by  a  wiser  hand,  for  roaming  and  childish  adventure 
— and  there  were  silence  and  sunlit  space  and  sea 
and  distant  mists  for  the  weaving  of  dreams — 
ay,  and,  upon  rare  days,  the  smoke  of  the  great 
ships,  bound  down  the  Straits — and  when  dreams 
had  worn  the  patience  there  were  huge  loose  rocks 
handy  for  rolling  over  the  brow  of  the  cliff — and 
there  was  gray  moss  in  the  hollows,  thick  and  dry 
and  soft,  to  sprawl  on  and  rest  from  the  delights  of 


The  WORLD  From  Ihe  WATCHMAN      19 

the  day.  So  the  Watchman  was  a  playground  for 
my  mother  and  me — my  sister,  my  elder  by  seven 
years,  was  all  the  day  long  tunefully  busy  about  my 
father's  comfort  and  the  little  duties  of  the  house — 
and,  on  that  blue  day,  we  climbed  the  broken  cliff 
behind  our  house  and  toiled  up  the  slope  beyond  in 
high  spirits,  and  we  were  very  happy  together ;  for 
my  mother  was  a  Boston  maid,  and,  though  she 
turned  to  right  heartily  when  there  was  work  to  do, 
she  was  not  like  the  Labrador  born,  but  thought  it 
no  sin  to  wander  and  laugh  in  the  sunlight  of  the 
heads  when  came  the  blessed  opportunity. 

"  I'm  fair  done  out,"  said  I,  at  last,  returning, 
flushed,  from  a  race  to  Beacon  Rock. 

"  Lie  here,  Davy — ay,  but  closer  yet — and  rest," 
said  she. 

I  flung  myself  at  full  length  beside  her,  spreading 
abroad  my  sturdy  little  arms  and  legs  ;  and  I  caught 
her  glance,  glowing  warm  and  proud,  as  it  ran  over 
me,  from  toe  to  crown,  and,  flashing  prouder  yet 
through  a  gathering  mist  of  tears,  returned  again. 

"  I  knows  why  you're  lookin'  at  me  that  way," 
said  I. 

"  And  why  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Tis  for  sheer  love  o'  me ! " 

She  was  strangely  moved  by  this.  Her  hands, 
passionately  clasped  of  a  sudden,  she  laid  upon 


20       DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

her  heart;  and  she  drew  a  sharp,  quivering 
breath. 

"  You're  getting  so — so — strong  and — and — so 
big  /"  she  cried. 

"  Hut ! "  said  I.     «  Tis  nothin'  t'  cry  about !  " 

"  Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "  I'm  proud  t'  be  the  mother  of 
a  son !" 

I  started  up. 

"  I'm  that  proud,"  she  went  on,  hovering  now  be 
tween  great  joy  and  pain,  "  that  it — it — fair  hurts 
me!" 

"  I'll  not  have  you  cry ! "  I  protested. 

She  caught  me  in  her  arms  and  we  broke  into 
merry  laughter.  Then  to  please  her  I  said  that  I 
would  gather  flowers  for  her  hair — and  she  would  be 
the  stranded  mermaid  and  I  the  fisherman  whom  she 
besought  to  put  her  back  in  the  sea  and  rewarded 
with  three  wishes — and  I  sought  flowers  everywhere 
in  the  hollows  and  crevices  of  the  bald  old  Watch 
man,  where,  through  years,  some  soil  had  gathered, 
but  found  only  whisps  of  wiry  grass  and  one  wretched 
blossom ;  whereupon  I  returned  to  her  very  wroth. 

"  God  made  a  botch  o'  the  world  ! "  I  declared. 

She  looked  up  in  dismay. 

"  Ay,"  I  repeated,  with  a  stamp  of  the  foot,  "  a 
wonderful  botch  o'  the  world  He's  gone  an'  made. 
Why,  they's  but  one  flower  on  the  Watchman  ! " 


The  WORLD  From  The  WATCHMAN      21 

She  looked  over  the  barren  land — the  great  gray 
waste  of  naked  rock — and  sighed. 

"  But  one  ?  "  she  asked,  softly. 

"  An  I  was  God,"  I  said,  indignantly,  "  I'd  have 
made  more  flowers  an'  made  un  bigger" 

She  smiled  in  the  way  of  one  dreaming. 

"  Hut ! "  I  went  on,  giving  daring  wing  to  my 
imagination.  "  I'd  have  made  a  hundred  kinds  an' 
soil  enough  t'  grow  un  all — every  one  o'  the  whole 
hundred!  I'd  have " 

She  laid  a  soft  hand  on  my  lips.  "  Tis  a  land," 
she  whispered,  with  shining  eyes,  "  that  grows  rosy 
lads,  and  I'm  well  content ! " 

"  'Tis  a  poor  way,"  I  continued,  disregarding  her 
caress,  "  t'  gather  soil  in  buckets.  I'd  have  made 
enough  t'  gather  it  in  barrows  !  I'd  have  made  lots 
of  it — heaps  of  it.  Why,"  I  boasted,  growing  yet 
more  recklessly  prodigal,  "  I'd  have  made  a  hill  of  it 
somewheres  handy  t'  every  harbour  in  the  world — as 
big  as  the  Watchman — ay,  an'  handy  t'  the  harbours, 
so  the  folk  could  take  so  much  as  they  wanted — 
t'  make  potato-gardens — an' — an'  t'  make  the  grave 
yards  deep  enough.  'Tis  a  wonderful  poor  way," 
I  concluded  with  contempt,  "  t'  have  t'  gather  it  in 
buckets  from  the  rocks  !  " 

My  mother  was  laughing  heartily  now. 

"  Twould   not   be  a  better  world,  thinks  you  ? " 


22       DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

said  I.  "  Ay,  but  I  could  do  better  than  that ! 
Hut!"  I  cried,  at  last  utterly  abandoned  to  my 
imagination,  "  I'd  have  more  things  than  potatoes 
grow  in  the  ground  an'  more  things  than  berries 
grow  on  bushes.  What  would  I  have  grow  in  the 
ground,  says  you  ?  Is  you  thinkin'  I  don't  know  ? 
Oh,  ay,  mum,"  I  protested,  somewhat  at  a  loss,  but 
very  knowingly,  "  /  knows  ! "  I  was  now  getting 
rapidly  beyond  my  depth;  but  I  plunged  bravely  on, 
wondering  like  lightning,  the  while,  what  else  could 
grow  in  the  ground  and  on  bushes.  "  I'd  have 
flour  grow  in  the  ground,  mum,"  I  cried,  trium 
phantly,  "  an'  I'd  have  sea-boots  an'  sou' westers  grow 
on  the  bushes.  An',  ecod !  "  I  continued,  inspired, 
"  I'd  have  fishes  grow  on  bushes,  already  split  an' 
cleaned ! " 

What  other  improvements  I  would  have  made 
on  the  good  Lord's  handiwork  I  do  not  know. 
Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy,  being  on  the  road  to 
Trader's  Cove  from  the  Rat  Hole,  where  he  lived 
alone  with  his  twin  lads,  had  spied  us  from  Needle 
Rock,  and  now  came  puffing  up  the  hill  to  wish  my 
mother  good-day  :  which,  indeed,  all  true  men  of  the 
harbour  never  failed  to  do,  whenever  they  came  near. 
He  was  a  short,  marvellously  broad,  bow-legged  old 
man — but  yet  straight  and  full  of  strength  and  fine 
hope — all  the  while  dressed  in  tight  white  moleskin 


The  WORLD  From  The  WATCHMAN      23 

(much  soiled  by  the  slime  of  the  day's  work),  long 
skin  boots,  tied  below  the  knees,  and  a  ragged  cloth 
cap,  which  he  kept  pulled  tight  over  his  bushy  grey 
hair.  There  was  a  mild  twinkle  forever  lying  in  the 
depths  of  his  blue  eyes,  and  thence,  at  times,  over 
flowing  upon  his  broad  brown  face,  which  then  rip 
pled  with  wrinkles,  from  the  roots  of  his  hair  to  the 
fringe  of  white  beard  under  his  chin,  in  a  way  at 
once  to  make  one  laugh  with  him,  though  one  could 
not  quite  tell  why.  We  lads  of  the  harbour  loved 
him  very  much,  for  his  good-humour  and  for  his 
tenderness — never  more  so,  however,  than  when,  by 
night,  in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  he  told  us  long  tales 
of  the  fairies  and  wicked  elves  he  had  dealt  with  in 
his  time,  twinkling  with  every  word,  so  that  we  were 
sorely  puzzled  to  know  whether  to  take  him  in  jest  or 
earnest. 

"  I've  a  very  bad  son,  the  day,  Skipper  Tommy," 
said  my  mother,  laying  a  fond  hand  on  my  head. 

"  Have  you,  now,  mum  !  "  cried  the  skipper,  with 
a  wink.  "  'Tis  hard  t'  believe.  He've  been  huntin' 
gulls'  nests  in  parlous  places  on  the  cliff  o'  the 
Watchman,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  'Tis  worse  than  that." 

"  Dear  man  !  Worse  than  that,  says  you  ?  Then 
he've  took  the  punt  beyond  the  Gate  all  by 
hisself." 


24        DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  'Tis  even  worse  than  that.  He's  not  pleased 
with  the  dear  Lord's  world." 

Skipper  Tommy  stopped  dead  and  stared  me  in 
the  eye — but  not  coldly,  you  must  know;  just  in 
mild  wonder,  in  which,  it  may  be,  was  mixed  some 
admiration,  as  though  he,  too,  deep  in  his  guileless 
old  heart,  had  had  some  doubt  which  he  dared  not 
entertain. 

"  Ay,"  said  I,  loftily,  "  He've  not  made  flowers 
enough  t'  suit  my  taste." 

Skipper  Tommy  rubbed  his  nose  in  a  meditative 
way.  "  Well,"  he  drawled, "  He  haven't  made  many, 
true  enough.  I'm  not  sayin'  He  mightn't  have  made 
more.  But  He've  done  very  well.  They's  enough 
— oh,  ay,  they's  enough  t'  get  along  with.  For, 
look  you  !  lad,  they's  no  real  need  o'  any  more. 
Twas  wonderful  kind  of  Un,"  he  went  on,  swept 
away  by  a  flood  of  good  feeling,  as  often  hap 
pened,  "  t'  make  even  one  little  flower.  Sure,  He 
didn't  have  t'  do  it.  He  just  went  an'  done  it  for  love 
of  us.  Ay,"  he  repeated,  delighting  himself  with  this 
new  thought  of  his  Lord's  goodness,  "  'twas  wonderful 
kind  o'  the  Lard  t'  take  so  much  trouble  as  that ! " 

My  mother  was  looking  deep  into  Skipper  Tommy's 
eyes  as  though  she  saw  some  lovely  thing  therein. 

"  Ay,"  said  I,  "  'twas  fair  kind ;  but  I'm  wishin' 
He'd  been  a  bit  more  free." 


The  WORLD  From  The  WATCHMAN      25 

My  mother  smiled  at  that.  Then, "  And  my  son," 
she  said,  in  the  way  of  one  poking  fun, "  would  have 
flour  grow  out  of  the  ground  !  " 

"  An'  did  he  say  that ! "  cried  Skipper  Tommy. 

My  mother  laughed,  and  Skipper  Tommy  laughed 
uproariously,  and  loudly  slapped  his  thick  thigh ;  and 
I  felt  woefully  foolish,  and  wondered  much  what 
depth  of  ignorance  I  had  betrayed,  but  I  laughed, 
too,  because  Skipper  Tommy  laughed  so  heartily  and 
opened  his  great  mouth  so  wide  ;  and  we  were  all  very 
merry  for  a  time.  At  last,  while  I  wondered,  I 
thought  that,  perhaps,  flour  did  grow,  after  all — 
though,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  could  not  tell  how — and 
that  my  mother  and  Skipper  Tommy  knew  it  well 
enough ;  whereupon  I  laughed  the  merrier. 

"  Come,  look  you ! "  then  said  Skipper  Tommy, 
gently  taking  the  lobe  of  my  ear  between  his  thick, 
hard  thumb  and  forefinger.  "  Don't  you  go  thinkin' 
you  could  make  better  worlds  than  the  Lard.  Why, 
lad,  'tis  but  play  for  Him  !  He've  no  trouble  makin' 
a  world !  I'm  thinkin'  He've  made  more  than  one," 
he  added,  his  voice  changing  to  a  knowing  whisper. 
"  'Tis  my  own  idea,  but,"  now  sagely,  "  I'm  thinkin' 
He  did.  'Tis  like  that  this  was  the  first,  an'  He  done 
better  when  He  got  His  hand  in.  Oh,  ay,  nar  a 
doubt  He  done  better  with  the  rest !  But  He  done 
wonderful  well  with  this  one.  When  you're  so  old 


26        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  "The  LABRADOR 

as  me,  lad,  you'll  know  that  though  the  Lard  made  few 
flowers  He  put  a  deal  o'  time  an'  labour  on  the  har 
bours  ;  an'  when  you're  beatin'  up  t'  the  Gate,  lad,  in 
a  gale  o'  wind — an'  when  you  thinks  o'  the  quiet  place 
t'other  side  o'  Frothy  Point — you'll  know  the  Lard 
done  well  by  all  the  folk  o'  this  world  when  He  made 
safe  harbours  instead  o'  wastin'  His  time  on  flowers. 
Ay,  lad,  'tis  a  wonderful  well  built  world ;  an'  you'll 
know  it — then  ! " 

We  turned  homeward — down  the  long  road  over 
the  shoulder  of  the  Watchman ;  for  the  evening  was 
drawing  near. 

"  They's  times,"  said  Skipper  Tommy,  giving  his 
nose  a  puzzled  tweak, "  when  I  wonders  how  He  done 
it.  'Tis  fair  beyond  me!  I  wonders  a  deal,  now, 
mum,"  turning  to  my  mother,  his  face  lighting  with 
interest,  "  about  they  stars.  Now,  mum,"  smiling 
wistfully, "  I  wonders  ...  I  wonders  .  .  .  how 
He  stuck  un  up  there  in  the  sky.  Ah,"  with  a  long 
sigh,  "  I'd  sure  like  t'  know  that !  An'  wouldn't  you, 
mum  ?  Ecod  !  but  I  would  like  t'  know  that !  'Twould 
be  worth  while,  I'm  thinkin'.  I'm  wishin'  I  could  find 
out.  But,  hut !  "  he  cried,  with  a  laugh  which  yet 
rang  strangely  sad  in  my  ears,  "  'tis  none  o'  my  busi 
ness.  'Twould  be  a  queer  thing,  indeed,  if  men  went 
pryin'  into  the  Lard's  secrets.  He'd  fix  un,  I  'low — 
He'd  snarl  un  all  up — He'd  let  un  think  theirselves 


The  WORLD  From  The  WATCHMAN      27 

wise  an'  guess  theirselves  mad !  That's  what  He'd 
do.  But,  now,"  falling  again  into  a  wistful,  dreaming 
whisper, "  I  wonders  .  .  .  wonders  .  .  .  how 
He  does  stick  them  stars  up  there.  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  try 
t'  think  that  out — some  day — so  people  could  know, 
an'  wouldn't  have  t'  wonder  no  more.  I — wonders — 
if  I  could  ! " 

We  walked  on  in  silence — down  the  last  slope,  and 
along  the  rocky  path  to  Trader's  Cove ;  and  never  a 
word  was  spoken.  When  we  came  to  the  turn  to  our 
house  we  bade  the  skipper  good-evening. 

"  Don't  you  be  forgettin',"  he  said,  tipping  up  my 
face  with  a  finger  under  my  chin,  "  that  you'll  soon 
be  thinkin'  more  o'  harbours  than  o'  flowers." 

I  laughed. 

"  But,  ecod ! "  he  broke  out,  violently  rubbing  his 
nose,  until  I  was  fairly  concerned  for  it,  so  red  did  it 
turn,  "  that  was  a  wonderful  good  idea  about  the 
flour ! " 

My  mother  looked  at  him  sharply ;  then  her  eyes 
twinkled,  and  she  hid  a  smile  behind  her  hand. 

"'Tivould  be  a  good  thing  t'  have  it  grow,"  the 
old  man  continued.  "  'Twould  be  far  better  than 
— than — well,  now — makin'  it  the  way  they  does. 
Ecod  !  "  he  concluded,  letting  his  glance  fall  in  bewil 
derment  on  the  ground,  "  I  wonders  how  they  does 
make  flour.  I  wonders  .  wonders  .  .  . 


28        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

where  they  gets  the  stuff  an' — an' — how  they  makes 
it!" 

He  went  off,  wondering  still ;  and  my  mother  and 
I  went  slowly  home,  and  sat  in  the  broad  window  of 
our  house,  which  overlooked  the  harbour  and  fronted 
the  flaring  western  sky ;  and  then  first  she  told  me  of 
the  kind  green  world  beyond. 


Ill 

IN    THE    HAl/EN     of     HER    ARMS 

THERE  was  a  day  not  far  distant — my  father 
had  told  my  mother  with  a  touch  of  impa 
tience  that  it  must  come  for  all  sons — when 
Skipper  Tommy  took  me  with  one  of  the  twin  lads 
in  the  punt  to  the  Hook-an'-Line  grounds  to  jig,  for 
the  traps  were  doing  poorly  with  the  fish,  the  summer 
was  wasting  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  take 
to  hook  and  line :  which  my  father's  dealers  heartily 
did,  being  anxious  to  add  what  fish  they  could  to 
the  catch,  though  in  this  slower  way.  And  it  was 
my  first  time  beyond  the  Gate — and  the  sea  seemed 
very  vast  and  strange  and  sullen  when  we  put  out 
at  dawn — and  when  the  long  day  was  near  done 
the  wind  blew  gray  and  angry  from  the  north  and 
spread  a  thickening  mist  over  the  far-off  Watchman 
— and  before  night  closed,  all  that  Skipper  Tommy 
had  said  of  harbours  and  flowers  came  true  in  my 
heart. 

"  We'll  be  havin'  t'  beat  up  t'  the  Gate,"  said  he, 
as  he  hauled  in  the  grapnel. 

"  With  all  the  wind  she  can  carry,"  added  little 
Jacky,  bending  to  lift  the  mast  into  the  socket. 

29 


30        DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

In  truth,  yes — as  it  seemed  to  my  unknowing  mind : 
she  had  all  the  wind  she  could  carry.  The  wind 
fretted  the  black  sea  until  it  broke  all  roundabout ; 
and  the  punt  heeled  to  the  gusts  and  endlessly  flung 
her  bows  up  to  the  big  waves ;  and  the  spray  swept 
over  us  like  driving  rain,  and  was  bitter  cold;  and 
the  mist  fell  thick  and  swift  upon  the  coast  beyond. 
Jacky,  forward  with  the  jib-sheet  in  his  capable  little 
fist  and  the  bail  bucket  handy,  scowled  darkly  at  the 
gale,  being  alert  as  a  cat,  the  while  ;  and  the  skipper, 
his  mild  smile  unchanged  by  all  the  tumult,  kept  a 
hand  on  the  mainsheet  and  tiller,  and  a  keen,  quiet 
eye  on  the  canvas  and  on  the  vanishing  rocks  whither 
we  were  bound.  And  forth  and  back  she  went,  back 
and  forth,  again  and  again,  without  end — beating  up 
to  harbour. 

"  Dear  man  !  "  said  Skipper  Tommy,  with  a  glance 
at  the  vague  black  outline  of  the  Watchman,  "  but 
'tis  a  fine  harbour  !  " 

"  Tis  that,"  sighed  Jacky,  wistfully,  as  a  screaming 
little  gust  heeled  the  punt  over ;  "  an' — an' — I  wisht 
we  was  there  !  " 

Skipper  Tommy  laughed  at  his  son. 

"  I  does  !  "  Jacky  declared. 

"  I — I — I'm  not  so  sure,"  I  stammered,  taking  a 
tighter  grip  on  the  gunwale,  "  but  I  wisht  we  was — 
there — too." 


IN  THE  HAY  EN  of  HER  ARMS          31 

"  You'll  be  wishin'  that  often,"  said  Skipper  Tommy, 
pointedly,  "  if  you  lives  t'  be  so  old  as  me." 

We  wished  it  often,  indeed,  that  day — while  the 
wind  blustered  yet  more  wildly  out  of  the  north  and 
the  waves  tumbled  aboard  our  staggering  little  craft 
and  the  night  came  apace  over  the  sea — and  we 
have  wished  it  often  since  that  old  time,  have  Jacky 
and  I,  God  knows !  I  had  the  curious  sensation  of 
fear,  I  fancy — though  I  am  loath  to  call  it  that — for 
the  first  time  in  my  life ;  and  I  was  very  much  re 
lieved  when,  at  dusk,  we  rounded  the  looming  Watch 
man,  ran  through  the  white  waters  and  thunderous 
confusion  of  the  Gate,  with  the  breakers  leaping 
high  on  either  hand,  sharply  turned  Frothy  Point 
and  came  at  last  into  the  ripples  of  Trader's  Cove. 
Glad  I  was,  you  may  be  sure,  to  find  my  mother 
waiting  on  my  father's  wharf,  and  to  be  taken  by  the 
hand,  and  to  be  led  up  the  path  to  the  house,  where 
there  was  spread  a  grand  supper  of  fish  and  bread, 
which  my  sister  had  long  kept  waiting  ;  and,  after  all, 
to  be  rocked  in  the  broad  window,  safe  in  the  haven 
of  my  mother's  arms,  while  the  last  of  the  sullen 
light  of  day  fled  into  the  wilderness  and  all  the  world 
turned  black. 

"  You'll  be  singin'  for  me,  mum,  will  you  not  ?  "  I 
whispered. 

"  And  what  shall  I  sing,  lad  ?  "  said  she. 


32        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  You  knows,  mum." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  she.     "  Come,  tell  me ! " 

What  should  she  sing  ?  I  knew  well,  at  that  mo 
ment,  the  assurance  my  heart  wanted :  we  are  a 
God-fearing  people,  and  I  was  a  child  of  that  coast ; 
and  I  had  then  first  come  in  from  a  stormy  sea. 
There  is  a  song 

"  Tis, '  Jesus  Saviour  Pilot  Me,'  "  I  answered. 

"  I  knew  it  all  the  time,"  said  she ;  and, 

" '  Jesus,  Saviour,  pilot  me, 
Over  life's  tempestuous  sea,'  " 

she   sang,  very  softly — and   for   me   alone — like  a 
sweet  whisper  in  my  ear. 

"  '  Unknown  waves  before  me  roll, 
Hiding  rock  and  treacherous  shoal; 
Chart  and  compass  came  from  Thee : 
Jesus,  Saviour,  pilot  me  ! '  " 

"  I  was  thinkin'  o'  that,  mum,  when  we  come 
through  the  Gate,"  said  I.  "  Sure,  I  thought  Skip 
per  Tommy  might  miss  the  Way,  an*  get  t'other 
side  o'  the  Tooth,  an'  get  in  the  Trap,  an'  go  t' 
wreck  on  the  Murderers,  an'— 

"  Hush,  dear  !  "  she  whispered.  "  Sure,  you've  no 
cause  to  fear  when  the  pilot  knows  the  way." 

The  feeling  of  harbour — of  escape  and  of  shelter 
and  brooding  peace — was  strong  upon  me  while  we 


IN  THE.HAfEN  of  HER  ARMS          ^ 

sat  rocking  in  the  failing  light.  1  have  never  since 
made  harbour — never  since  come  of  a  sudden  from 
the  toil  and  the  frothy  rage  of  the  sea  by  night 
or  day,  but  my  heart  has  felt  again  the  peace  of 
that  quiet  hour — never  once  but  blessed  memory 
has  given  me  once  again  the  vision  of  myself,  a  little 
child,  lying  on  my  mother's  dear  breast,  gathered 
close  in  her  arms,  while  she  rocked  and  softly  sang 
of  the  tempestuous  sea  and  a  Pilot  for  the  sons  of 
men,  still  rocking,  rocking,  in  the  broad  window  of 
my  father's  house.  I  protest  that  I  love  my  land, 
and  have  from  that  hour,  barren  as  it  is  and  as 
bitter  the  sea  that  breaks  upon  it ;  for  I  then  learned 
— and  still  know — that  it  is  as  though  the  dear  God 
Himself  made  harbours  with  wise,  kind  hands  for 
such  as  have  business  in  the  wild  waters  of  that  coast. 
And  I  love  my  life — and  go  glad  to  the  day's  work 
— for  I  have  learned,  in  the  course  of  it  and  by  the 
life  of  the  man  who  came  to  us,  that  whatever  the 
stress  and  fear  of  the  work  to  be  done  there  is  yet 
for  us  all  a  refuge,  which,  by  way  of  the  heart,  they 
find  who  seek. 

And  I  fell  asleep  in  my  mother's  arms,  and  by  and 
by  my  big  father  came  in  and  laughed  tenderly  to 
find  me  lying  there ;  and  then,  as  I  have  been  told, 
laughing  softly  still  they  carried  me  up  and  flung  me 


34        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

on  my  bed,  flushed  and  wet  and  limp  with  sound 
slumber,  where  I  lay  like  a  small  sack  of  flour,  while 
together  they  pulled  off  my  shoes  and  stockings  and 
jacket  and  trousers  and  little  shirt,  and  bundled  me 
into  my  night-dress,  and  rolled  me  under  the  blanket, 
and  tucked  me  in,  and  kissed  me  good-night. 

When  my  mother's  lips  touched  my  cheek  I  awoke. 
"  Is  it  you,  mama? "  I  asked. 

"  Ay,"  said  she;  "  'tis  your  mother,  lad." 

Her  hand  went  swiftly  to  my  brow,  and  smoothed 
back  the  tousled,  wet  hair. 

"  Is  you  kissed  me  yet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay  !  "  said  she. 

"  Kiss  me  again,  please,  mum,"  said  I, "  for  I  wants 
—  t'  make  sure — you  done  it." 

She  kissed  me  again,  very  tenderly ;  and  I  sighed 
and  fell  asleep,  content. 


IV 
THE    SHADOW 

WHEN  the  mail-boat  left  our  coast  to  the 
long  isolation  of  that  winter  my  mother 
was  even  more  tender  with  the  scrawny 
plants  in  the  five  red  pots  on  the  window-shelf.  On 
gray  days,  when  our  house  and  all  the  world  lay  in 
the  soggy  shadow  of  the  fog,  she  fretted  sadly  for 
their  health  ;  and  she  kept  feverish  watch  for  a  rift 
in  the  low,  sad  sky,  and  sighed  and  wished  for  sun 
light.  It  mystified  me  to  perceive  the  wistful  regard 
she  bestowed  upon  the  stalks  and  leaves  that  thrived 
the  illest — the  soft  touches  for  the  yellowing  leaves, 
and,  at  last,  the  tear  that  fell,  when,  withered  beyond 
hope,  they  were  plucked  and  cast  away — and  I  asked 
her  why  she  loved  the  sick  leaves  so ;  and  she  an 
swered  that  she  knew  but  would  not  tell  me  why. 
Many  a  time,  too,  at  twilight,  I  surprised  her  sitting 
downcast  by  the  window,  staring  out — and  far — not 
upon  the  rock  and  sea  of  our  harbour,  but  as  though 
through  the  thickening  shadows  into  some  other 
place. 

"  What  you  lookin'  at,  mum  ?  "  I  asked  her,  once. 
35 


^6        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  A  glory,"  she  answered. 

"  Glory !  "  said  I.  "  They's  no  glory  out  there. 
The  night  falls.  'Tis  all  black  an'  cold  on  the  hills. 
Sure,  /  sees  no  glory." 

"  'Tis  not  a  glory,  but  a  shadow,"  she  whispered, 
"  for  you ! " 

Nor  was  I  now  ever  permitted  to  see  her  in  dis 
array,  but  always,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  fresh  from 
my  sister's  clever  hands,  her  hair  laid  smooth  and 
shining,  her  simple  gown  starched  crisp  and  sweetly 
smelling  of  the  ironing  board;  and  when  I  asked 
her  why  she  was  never  but  thus  lovely,  she  answered, 
with  a  smile,  that  surely  it  pleased  her  son  to  find 
her  always  so :  which,  indeed,  it  did.  I  felt,  hence, 
in  some  puzzled  way,  that  this  display  was  a  design 
upon  me,  but  to  what  end  I  could  not  tell.  And 
there  was  an  air  of  sad  unquiet  in  the  house :  it  oc 
curred  to  my  childish  fancy  that  my  mother  was  like 
one  bound  alone  upon  a  long  journey ;  and  once, 
deep  in  the  night,  when  I  had  long  lain  ill  at  ease  in 
the  shadow  of  this  fear,  I  crept  to  her  door  to  listen, 
lest  she  be  already  fled,  and  I  heard  her  sigh  and 
faintly  complain  ;  and  then  I  went  back  to  bed,  very 
sad  that  my  mother  should  be  ailing,  but  now  sure 
that  she  would  not  leave  me. 

Next  morning  my  father  leaned  over  our  break 
fast  table  and  laid  his  broad  hand  upon  my  mother's 


THE    SHADOW  37 

shoulder ;  whereupon  she  looked  up  smiling,  as  ever 
she  did  when  that  big  man  caressed  her. 

"  I'll  be  havin'  the  doctor  for  you,"  he  said. 

She  gave  him  a  swift  glance  of  warning — then 
turned  her  wide  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Oh,"  said  my  father,  "  the  lad  knows  you  is 
sick.  Tis  no  use  tryin'  t'  keep  it  from  un  any  more." 

"  Ay,"  I  sobbed,  pushing  my  plate  away,  for  I  was 
of  a  sudden  no  longer  hungry,  "  I  heared  you  cryin' 
las'  night." 

My  sister  came  quickly  to  my  side,  and  wound  a 
soft  arm  about  my  neck,  and  drew  my  head  close  to 
her  heart,  and  kissed  me  many  times ;  and  when  she 
had  soothed  me  I  looked  up  and  found  my  mother 
gloriously  glad  that  I  had  cried. 

"  'Tis  nothing,"  then  she  said,  with  a  rush  of  ten 
derness  for  my  grief.  "  'Tis  not  hard  to  bear. 
Tis " 

"  Ay,  but,"  said  my  father,  "  I'll  be  havin'  the  doc 
tor  t'  see  you." 

My  mother  pooh-poohed  it  all.  The  doctor  ?  For 
her?  Not  she  !  She  was  not  sick  enough  for  that! 

"  I'm  bent,"  said  my  father,  doggedly,  "  on  havin' 
that  man." 

"  David,"  cried  my  mother,  "  I'll  not  have  you  do 
it ! " 

"  I'll  have  my  way  of  it,"  said  my  father.     "  I'm 


38        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

bent  on  it,  an'  I'll  be  put  off  no  longer.  Tis  no  use, 
m'am — nar  a  bit !  The  doctor's  comin'  t'  see  you." 

"  Ah,  well !  "  sighed  my  mother. 

"  Ay,"  said  my  father,  "  I'll  have  that  man  ashore 
when  the  mail-boat  comes  in  the  spring.  'Tis  well 
on  t'  December  now,"  he  went  on,  "  an'  it  may  be 
we'll  have  an  early  break-up.  Sure,  if  they's  westerly 
winds  in  the  spring,  an'  the  ice  clears  away  in  good 
season,  we'll  be  havin'  the  mail-boat  north  in  May. 
Come,  now  !  'twill  not  be  later  than  June,  I  'low. 
An'  I'll  have  that  doctor  ashore  in  a  hurry,  mark  my 
words,  when  the  anchor's  down.  That  I  will ! " 

"  'Tis  a  long  time,"  said  my  mother. 

Every  morning,  thereafter,  she  said  that  she  was 
better — always  better — much,  much  better.  'Twas 
wonderful,  she  said,  'twas  fair  past  making  out,  in 
deed,  that  she  should  so  soon  grow  into  a  fine,  hearty 
woman  again ;  and  'twould  be  an  easy  matter,  said 
she,  for  the  mail-boat  doctor  to  cure  her — when  he 
came.  And  she  was  now  more  discreet  with  her 
moods ;  not  once  did  I  catch  her  brooding  alone, 
though  more  than  once  I  lay  in  wait  in  dark  corners 
or  peered  through  the  crack  in  the  door ;  and  she 
went  smiling  about  the  house,  as  of  old — but  yet  not 
as  of  old ;  and  I  puzzled  over  the  difference,  but 
could  not  discover  it.  More  often,  now,  at  twilight, 
she  lured  me  to  her  lap,  where  I  was  never  loath  to 


THE    SHADOW  39 

go,  great  lad  of  nine  years  though  I  was ;  and  she 
sat  silent  with  me,  rocking,  rocking,  while  the  deeper 
night  came  down — and  she  kissed  me  so  often  that 
I  wondered  she  did  not  tire  of  it — and  she  stroked 
my  brow  and  cheeks,  and  touched  my  eyes,  and  ran 
her  finger-tips  over  my  eyebrows  and  nose  and  lips, 
ay,  and  softly  played  with  my  lips — and  at  times  she 
strained  me  so  hard  to  her  breast  that  I  near  com 
plained  of  the  embrace — and  I  was  no  more  driven 
off  to  bed  when  my  eyes  grew  heavy,  but  let  lie  in 
her  arms,  while  we  sat  silent,  rocking,  rocking,  until 
long,  long  after  I  had  fallen  asleep.  And  once,  at 
the  end  of  a  sweet,  strange  hour,  making  believe  to 
play,  she  gently  pried  my  eyes  wide  open  and  looked 
far  into  their  depths — so  deep,  so  long,  so  searchingly, 
so  strangely,  that  I  waxed  uneasy  under  the  glance. 

"  Wh-wh-what — what  you "  I  began,  inarticu 
lately. 

"  What  am  I  looking  for  ?  "  she  interrupted,  speak 
ing  quickly. 

"  Ay,"  I  whimpered,  for  I  was  deeply  agitated ; 
"  what  you  lookin'  for  ?  " 

"  For  your  heart,"  said  she. 

I  did  not  know  what  she  meant ;  and  I  wondered 
concerning  the  fancy  she  had,  but  did  not  ask,  for 
there  was  that  in  her  voice  and  eyes  that  made  me 
very  solemn. 


40   DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  'Tis  but  a  child's  heart,"  she  sighed,  turning 
away.  "  'Tis  but  like  the  hearts,"  she  whispered,  "  of 
all  children.  I  cannot  tell — I  cannot  tell,"  she 
sobbed,  "  and  I  want — oh,  I  want  so  much — to 
know  !  " 

"  Don't  cry ! "  I  pleaded,  thrown  into  an  agony  by 
her  tears,  in  the  way  of  all  children. 

She  sat  me  back  in  her  lap.  "  Look  in  your 
mother's  eyes,  lad,"  said  she,  "  and  say  after  me  this  : 
'  My  mother  — 

"  '  My  mother  —        "I  repeated,  very  soberly. 

"'  Looked  upon  my  heart  — 

"'  Looked  upon  my  heart—        "  said  I. 

"  '  And  found  it  brave  — 

" '  An'  found  it  brave '  " 

"  '  And  sweet '  " 

"'An'  sweet  — 

" '  Willing  for  the  day's  work '  "  said  she. 

" '  Willing  for  the  day's  work '  "  I  repeated. 

" '  And  harbouring  no  shameful  hope.'  " 

"'  An'  harbouring — no  shameful — hope.'  " 

Again  and  again  she  had  me  say  it — until  I  knew 
it  every  word  by  heart. 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  at  last,  "  but  you'll  forget !  " 

"  No,  no  ! "  I  cried.  "  I'll  not  forget.  '  My 
mother  looked  upon  my  heart,'  "  I  rattled,  " '  an' 
found  it  brave  an'  sweet,  willing  for  the  day's  work 


THE    SHADOW  41 

an'  harboring  no  shameful  hope.'  I've  not  forgot ! 
I've  not  forgot !  " 

"  He'll  forget,"  she  whispered,  but  not  to  me, 
"  like  all  children." 

But  I  have  not  forgotten — I  have  not  forgotten — 
I  have  never  forgotten — that  when  I  was  a  child  my 
mother  looked  upon  my  heart  and  found  it  brave  and 
sweet,  willing  for  the  day's  work  and  harbouring  no 
shameful  hope. 

The  winter  fell  early  and  with  ominous  severity. 
Our  bleak  coast  was  soon  too  bitter  with  wind  and 
frost  and  snow  for  the  folk  to  continue  in  their  poor 
habitations.  They  were  driven  in  haste  to  the 
snugger  inland  tilts,  which  lay  in  a  huddle  at  the 
Lodge,  far  up  Twisted  Arm,  in  the  blessed  prox 
imity  of  fire-wood — there  to  trap  and  sleep  in  hardly 
mitigated  misery  until  the  kindlier  spring  days  should 
once  again  invite  them  to  the  coast.  My  father,  the 
only  trader  on  forty  miles  of  our  coast,  as  always 
dealt  them  salt  beef  and  flour  and  tea  with  a  free 
hand,  until,  at  last,  the  storehouses  were  swept  clean 
of  food,  save  sufficient  for  our  own  wants  :  his  great 
heart  hopeful  that  the  catch  of  next  season,  and 
the  honest  hearts  of  the  folk,  and  the  mysterious 
favor  of  the  Lord,  would  all  conspire  to  repay  him. 
And  so  they  departed,  bag  and  baggage,  youngsters 


42   DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

and  dogs ;  and  the  waste  of  our  harbour  and  of  the 
infinite  roundabout  was  left  white  and  silent,  as  of 
death  itself.  But  we  dwelt  on  in  our  house  under 
the  sheltering  Watchman ;  for  my  father,  being  a 
small  trader,  was  better  off  than  they — though  I 
would  not  have  you  think  him  of  consequence  else 
where — and  had  builded  a  stout  house,  double- 
windowed,  lined  with  felt  and  wainscotted  with  can 
vas,  so  that  but  little  frost  formed  on  the  walls  of  the 
living  rooms,  and  that  only  in  the  coldest  weather. 

"  'Tis  cozy  enough,"  said  my  father,  chucking  my 
mother  under  the  chin,  "  even  for  a  maid  a  man 
might  cotch  up  Boston  way !  " 

Presently  came  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  by 
rollicking  dog-team  from  the  Lodge  to  inquire  after 
my  mother's  health — to  cheer  us,  it  may  be,  I'm 
thinking,  with  his  hearty  way,  his  vast  hope,  his 
odd  fancies,  his  ruddy,  twinkling  face.  Most  we 
laughed  when  he  described  his  plan  (how  seriously 
conceived  there  was  no  knowing)  for  training  whales 
to  serve  as  tugboats  in  calms  and  adverse  winds.  It 
appeared,  too,  that  a  similar  recital  had  been  trying 
to  the  composure  of  old  Tom  Tot,  of  our  harbour, 
who  had  searched  the  Bible  for  seven  years  to  dis 
cover  therein  a  good  man  of  whom  it  was  said  that 
he  laughed,  and,  failing  utterly,  had  thereupon  vowed 
never  again  to  commit  the  sin  of  levity. 


THE    SHADOW  43 

"  Sure,  I  near  fetched  un,"  said  Skipper  Tommy, 
gleefully,  "  with  me  whales.  I  come  near  makin' 
Tom  Tot  break  that  scandalous  vow,  zur,  indeed  I 
did !  He  got  wonderful  purple  in  the  face,  an' 
choked  in  a  fearsome  way,  when  I  showed  un  my 
steerin'  gear  for  the  beast's  tail,  but,  as  I'm  sad  t'  say, 
zur,  he  managed  t'  keep  it  in  without  bustin'.  But 
I'll  get  un  yet,  zur — oh,  ay,  zur — just  leave  un  t'  me ! 
Ecod  !  zur,  I'm  thinkin'  he'll  capsize  with  all  hands 
when  I  tells  un  I'm  t'  have  a  wheel-house  on  the  for 
ward  deck  o'  that  wha-a-ale  !  " 

But  the  old  man  soon  forgot  all  about  his  whales, 
as  he  had  forgotten  to  make  out  the  strange  way  the 
Lord  had  discovered  to  fasten  His  stars  to  the  sky ; 
moved  by  a  long  contemplation  of  my  mother's 
frailty,  he  had  a  nobler  inspiration. 

"  'Tis  sad,  lass,"  he  said,  his  face  aquiver  with 
sympathy,  "  t'  think  that  we've  but  one  doctor  t' 
cure  the  sick,  an'  him  on  the  mail-boat.  'Tis  wonder 
ful  sad  t'  think  o'  that !  'Tis  a  hard  case,"  he  went 
on,  "  but  if  a  man  only  thunk  hard  enough  he'd  find 
a  way  t'  mend  it.  Sure,  what  ought  t'  be  mended 
can  be  mended.  'Tis  the  way  o'  the  world.  If  a 
man  only  thinks  hard  an'  thinks  sensible,  he'll  find  a 
way,  zur,  every  time.  'Tis  easyt'  think  hard,  but 
'tis  sometimes  hard,"  he  added,  "  t'  think  t'  the 
point." 


44   DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

We  were  silent  while  he  continued  lost  in  deep 
and  puzzled  thought. 

"  Ecod !  "  he  burst  out.     "  I  got  it ! " 

"  Have  you,  now?"  cried  my  father,  half  amused, 
half  amazed. 

"  Just  this  minute,  zur,"  said  the  skipper,  in  a  glow 
of  delighted  astonishment.  "  It  come  t'  me  all  t' 
oncet." 

"An"  what  is  it?" 

"  'Tis  a  sort  o'  book,  zur !  " 

"  A  book  ?  " 

"  Ay,  'tis  just  a  book.  Find  out  all  the  cures  in 
the  world  an'  put  un  in  a  book.  Get  the  doctor- 
women's,  an'  the  healers',  an'  the  real  doctor's,  an' 
put  un  right  in  a  book.  Has  you  got  the  dip-theria? 
Ask  the  book  what  t'  do.  '  Dip-theria  ? '  says  the 
book  t'  you.  '  Well,  that's  sad.  Tie  a  split  herring 
round  your  neck.'  S'pose  you  got  the  salt-water 
sores.  What  do  you  do,  then?  Why,  turn  t'  the 
book.  '  Oh,  'tis  nothin'  t'  cure  that  I  says  the  book. 
'  Wear  a  brass  chain  on  your  wrist,  lad,  an'  you'll  be 
troubled  no  more.'  Take  it,  now,  when  you  got 
blood-poison  in  the  hand.  What  is  you  t'  do,  you 
wants  t'  know  ?  '  Blood-poison  in  the  hand  ?  '  says 
the  book.  '  Good  gracious,  that's  awful !  Cut  off 
your  hand.'  Twould  be  a  wonderful  good  work," 
the  skipper  concluded,  "  t'  make  a  book  like  that ! " 


THE    SHADOW  45 

It  appeared  to  me  that  it  would. 

"  I  wonder,"  the  skipper  went  on,  staring  at  the 
fire,  a  little  smile  playing  upon  his  face,  "  if  /  couldn't 
do  that !  'Tvvould  surely  be  a  thing  worth  doin'.  I 
wonder — I  wonder — if  I  couldn't  manage — somehow 
— t'  do  it !  " 

We  said  nothing ;  for  he  was  not  thinking  of  us, 
any  more,  as  we  knew — but  only  dreaming  of  the 
new  and  beneficent  work  which  had  of  a  sudden 
appeared  to  him. 

"  But  I  isn't  able  t'  write,"  he  muttered,  at  last. 
"  I— I— wisht  I  could  !  " 

11  'Twould  be  a  wonderful  fine  work  for  a  man  tf 
do,"  said  my  father. 

"  'Tis  a  wonder,  now,"  said  Skipper  Tommy,  look 
ing  up  with  a  bright  face,  "  that  no  one  ever  thought 
o'  doin'  that  afore.  T'  my  mind,"  he  added,  much 
puzzled,  "  'tis  very  queer,  indeed,  that  they's  nar  a 
man  in  all  the  world  t'  think  o'  that — but  me  !  " 

My  mother  smiled. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  just  have  t'  try,"  Skipper 
Tommy  went  on,  frowning  anxiously.  "  But,  ecod  ! " 
he  cried,  "  maybe  the  Lard  wouldn't  like  it.  Now, 
maybe,  He  wants  us  men  t'  mind  our  business. 
Maybe,  He'd  say,  '  You  keep  your  finger  out  o'  My 
pie.  Don't  you  go  makin'  no  books  about  cures.' 
But,  oh,  no  ! "  with  the  overflow  of  fine  feeling  which 


46        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  7 he  LABRADOR 

so  often  came  upon  him.  "  Why,  He  wouldn't  mind 
a  little  thing  like  that.  Sure,  I  wouldn't  mind  it, 
meself !  '  You  go  right  ahead,  lad,'  He'd  say,  '  an' 
try  t'  work  your  cures.  Don't  you  be  afeared  o'  Me. 
/'//  not  mind.  But,  lad,'  He'd  say, '  when  I  wants 
my  way  I  just  got  t'  have  it.  Don't  you  forget  that. 
Don't  you  go  thinkin'  you  can  have  your  way  afore 
I  has  Mine.  You  just  trust  Me  t'  do  what's  right. 
I  know  My  business.  I'm  used  t'  running  worlds. 
I'm  wonderful  sorry/  He'd  say, '  t'  have  t'  make  you 
feel  bad ;  but  they's  times,  b'y,'  He'd  say, '  when  I 
really  £Ytf  t'  have  My  way.'  Oh,  no,"  Skipper  Tommy 
concluded,  "  the  Lard  wouldn't  mind  a  poor  man's 
tryin'  t'  make  a  book  like  that!  An'  I  thinks  I'll 
just  have  t'  try." 

"  Sure,  Skipper  Tommy,"  said  I,  "  I'll  help  you." 

Skipper  Tommy  stared  at  me  in  great  amaze. 

"  Ay,"  said  my  mother,  "  Davy  has  learned  to 
write." 

"  That  I  have,"  I  boasted;  "  an'  I'll  help  you  make 
that  book." 

"  'Tis  the  same,"  cried  Skipper  Tommy,  slapping 
his  thigh  "as  if  'twas  writ  already !  " 

After  a  long  time,  my  mother  spoke.  "  You're 
always  wanting  to  do  some  good  thing,  Skipper 
Tommy,  are  you  not  ?  "  said  she. 


THE    SHADOW  47 

"  Well,"  he  admitted,  his  face  falling,  "  I  thinks 
and  wonders  a  deal,  'tis  true,  but  somehow  I  don't 
seem  t' " 

"  Ay  ?  "  my  father  asked. 

"  Get — nowhere — much  ! " 

Very  true:  but,  even  then,  there  was  a  man  on 
the  way  to  heip  him. 


V 

MAR  Y 

IN  the  dead  of  that  winter,  great  storms  of  wind 
and  snow  raged  for  days  together,  so  that  it  was 
unsafe  to  venture  ten  fathoms  from  the  door,  and 
the  glass  fell  to  fifty  degrees  (and  more)  below  zero, 
where  the  liquid  behaved  in  a  fashion  so  sluggish 
that  'twould  not  have  surprised  us  had  it  withdrawn 
into  the  bulb  altogether,  never  to  reappear  in  a  sphere 
of  agreeable  activity.  By  night  and  day  we  kept 
the  fires  roaring  (my  father  and  Skipper  Tommy 
standing  watch  and  watch  in  the  night)  and  might 
have  gone  at  ease,  cold  as  it  was,  had  we  not  been 
haunted  by  the  fear  that  a  conflagration,  despite  our 
watchfulness,  would  of  a  sudden  put  us  at  the  mercy 
of  the  weather,  which  would  have  made  an  end  of 
us,  every  one,  in  a  night.  But  when  the  skipper  had 
wrought  us  into  a  cheerful  mood,  the  wild,  white 
days  sped  swift  enough — so  fast,  indeed,  that  it  was 
quite  beyond  me  to  keep  count  of  them  :  for  he  was 
marvellous  at  devising  adventures  out-of-doors  and 
pastimes  within.  At  length,  however,  he  said  that 
he  must  be  off  to  the  Lodge,  else  Jacky  and  Timmie, 

48 


MARY  49 

the  twins,  who  had  been  left  to  fend  for  themselves, 
would  expire  of  longing  for  his  return. 

"  An'  I'll  be  takin'  Davy  back  with  me,  mum," 
said  he  to  my  mother,  not  daring,  however,  to  meet 
her  eye  to  eye  with  the  proposal,  "  for  the  twins  is 
wantin'  him  sore." 

"  Davy  !  "  cried  my  mother.  "  Surely,  Skipper 
Tommy,  you're  not  thinking  to  have  Davy  back  with 
you ! " 

Skipper  Tommy  ventured  to  maintain  that  I 
would  be  the  better  of  a  run  in  the  woods,  which 
would  (as  he  ingeniously  intimated)  restore  the  blood 
to  my  cheeks :  whereupon  my  mother  came  at  once 
to  his  way  of  thinking,  and  would  hear  of  no  delay, 
but  said — and  that  in  a  fever  of  anxiety — that  I  must 
be  off  in  the  morning,  for  she  would  not  rest  until  I 
was  put  in  the  way  of  having  healthful  sport  with 
lads  of  my  age.  So,  that  night,  my  sister  made  up 
three  weeks'  rations  for  me  from  our  store  (with  some 
thing  extra  in  the  way  of  tinned  beef  and  a  pot  of 
jam  as  a  gift  from  me  to  the  twins) ;  also,  she 
mended  my  sleeping-bag,  in  which  my  sprouting  legs 
had  kicked  a  hole,  and  got  out  the  big  black  wolf 
skin,  for  bed  covering  in  case  of  need.  And  by  the 
first  light  of  the  next  day  we  loaded  the  komatik, 
harnessed  the  joyful  dogs  and  set  out  with  a  rush, 
the  skipper's  long  whip  cracking  a  jolly  farewell  as 


50        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

we  went  swinging  over  the  frozen  harbour  to  the 
Arm. 

"  Hi,  hi,  b'y !  "  the  skipper  shouted  to  the  dogs. 

Crack  !  went  the  whip,  high  over  the  heads  of  the 
pack.  The  dogs  yelped.  "Hi,  hi ! "  screamed  I. 
And  on  we  sped,  raising  a  dust  of  crisp  snow  in  our 
wake.  It  was  a  famous  pack.  Fox,  the  new  leader, 
was  a  mighty,  indomitable  fellow,  and  old  Wolf,  in 
the  rear,  had  a  sharp  eye  for  lagging  heels,  which  he 
snapped,  in  a  flash,  whenever  a  trace  was  let  slack. 
What  with  Fox  and  Wolf  and  the  skipper's  long 
whip  and  my  cries  of  encouragement  there  was  no 
let  up.  On  we  went,  coursing  over  the  level  stretches, 
bumping  over  rough  places,  swerving  'round  the 
turns.  It  was  a  glorious  ride.  The  day  was  clear, 
the  air  frosty,  the  pace  exhilarating.  The  blood 
tingled  in  every  part  of  me.  I  was  sorry  when  we 
rounded  Pipestem  Point,  and  the  huddled  tilts  of  the 
Lodge,  half  buried  in  snow,  came  into  view.  But, 
half  an  hour  later,  in  Skipper  Tommy's  tilt,  I  was 
glad  that  the  distance  had  been  no  greater,  for  then 
the  twins  were  helping  me  thaw  out  my  cheeks  and 
the  tip  of  my  nose,  which  had  been  frozen  on  the  way. 

That  night  the  twins  and  I  slept  together  in  the 
cock-loft  like  a  litter  of  puppies. 

"  Beef !  "  sighed  Jacky,  the  last  thing  before  falling 
asleep.  "  Think  o'  that,  Timmie  !  " 


MARY  51 

"  An'  jam  ! "  said  Timmie. 

They  gave  me  a  nudge  to  waken  me.    "  Thanks, 
Davy,"  said  they  both. 
Then  I  fell  asleep. 

Our  folk  slept  a  great  deal  at  the  Lodge.  They 
seemed  to  want  to  have  the  winter  pass  without 
knowing  more  than  they  could  help  of  the  various 
pangs  of  it — like  the  bears.  But,  when  the  weather 
permitted  them  to  stir  without,  they  trapped  for  fox 
and  lynx,  and  hunted  (to  small  purpose)  with  an 
tiquated  guns,  and  cut  wood,  if  they  were  in  the 
humour ;  and  whatever  necessity  compelled  them  to 
do,  and  whatever  they  had  to  eat  (since  there  was  at 
least  enough  of  it),  they  managed  to  have  a  rollicking 
time  of  it,  as  you  would  not  suppose,  without  being 
told.  The  tilts  were  built  of  slim  logs,  caulked  with 
moss  ;  and  there  was  but  one  room — and  that  a  bare 
one — with  bunks  at  one  end  for  the  women  and  a 
cock-loft  above  for  the  men.  The  stove  was  kept  at 
red  heat,  day  and  night,  but,  notwithstanding,  there 
was  half  an  inch  of  frost  on  the  walls  and  great  icicles 
under  the  bunks :  extremes  of  temperature  were 
thus  to  be  found  within  a  very  narrow  compass.  In 
the  evening,  when  we  were  all  gathered  close  about 
the  stove,  we  passed  the  jolliest  hours  ;  for  it  was  then 
that  the  folk  came  in,  and  tales  were  told,  and  (what 


52        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

was  even  more  to  our  taste)  the  "  spurts  at  religion  " 
occurred. 

When  the  argument  concerned  the  pains  of  hell, 
Mary,  Tom  Tot's  daughter,  who  was  already  bound 
out  to  service  to  the  new  manager  of  the  store  at 
Wayfarer's  Tickle  (expected  by  the  first  mail-boat), 
would  slip  softly  in  to  listen. 

"  What  you  thinkin'  about  ?  "  I  whispered,  once. 

She  sat  remote  from  the  company,  biting  her 
finger  nails,  staring,  meanwhile,  from  speaker  to 
speaker,  with  eyes  that  were  pitifully  eager. 

"  Hell,"  she  answered. 

I  was  taken  aback  by  that.  "  Hell,  Mary  ?  "  I  ex 
claimed. 

"  Ay,  Davy,"  she  said,  with  a  shudder, "  I'm  thinkin' 
about  hell." 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  I.  "  Sure,  'twill  do  you  no 
good  to  think  about  hell." 

"  I  got  to,"  said  she.     "  I'm  goin'  there ! " 

Skipper  Tommy  explained,  when  the  folk  had 
gone,  that  Mary,  being  once  in  a  south  port  of  our 
coast,  had  chanced  to  hear  a  travelling  parson  preach 
a  sermon.  "  An',"  said  he,  "  'tis  too  bad  that  young 
man  preached  about  damnation,  for  'tis  the  only  ser 
mon  she  ever  heared,  an'  she  isn't  seemin'  t'  get  over 
it."  After  that  I  tried  to  persuade  Mary  that  she 
would  not  go  to  hell,  but  quite  dismally  failed — and 


MARY  53 

not  only  failed,  but  was  soon  thinking  that  I,  too, 
was  bound  that  way.  When  I  expressed  this  fear, 
Mary  took  a  great  fancy  to  me,  and  set  me  to  getting 
from  Skipper  Tommy  a  description  of  the  particular 
tortures,  as  he  conceived  they  were  to  be  inflicted ; 
for,  said  she,  he  was  a  holy  man,  and  could  tell  what 
she  so  much  wished  to  know.  Skipper  Tommy  took 
me  on  his  knee,  and  spoke  long  and  tenderly  to  me, 
so  that  I  have  never  since  feared  death  or  hell ;  but 
his  words,  being  repeated,  had  no  effect  upon  Mary, 
who  continued  still  to  believe  that  the  unhappy  fate 
awaited  her,  because  of  some  sin  she  was  predestined 
to  commit,  or,  if  not  that,  because  of  her  weight  of 
original  sin. 

"  Oh,  Davy,  I  got  t'  go  !  "  she  moaned,  tearing  one 
of  her  nails  to  the  quick. 

"  No,  no ! "  I  cried.  "  The  Lard  '11  never  be  so 
mean  t'  you." 

"  You  don't  know  Him,"  she  said,  mysteriously. 
"  You  don't  know  what  He's  up  to." 

"  Bother  Him !  "  I  exclaimed,  angered  that  mor 
tals  should  thus  be  made  miserable  by  interference. 
"  I  wisht  He'd  leave  us  be  !  " 

"  Hush !  "  she  said,  horrified. 

"  What's  He  gone  an'  done,  now  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  He've  not  elected  me,"  she  whispered,  solemnly. 
"  He've  left  me  with  the  goats." 


54        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

And  so,  happily,  I  accumulated  another  grudge 
against  this  misconception  of  the  dear  Lord,  which 
Skipper  Tommy's  sweet  philosophy  and  the  jolly 
companionship  of  the  twins  could  not  eliminate  for 
many  days.  But  eventually  the  fresh  air  and  laugh 
ter  and  tenderness  restored  my  complacency.  I  for 
got  all  about  hell ;  'twas  more  interesting  to  don  my 
racquets  and  make  the  round  of  the  fox  traps  with 
the  twins,  or  to  play  pranks  on  the  neighbours,  or  to 
fashion  curious  masques  and  go  mummering  from 
tilt  to  tilt.  In  the  end,  I  emerged  from  the  unfortu 
nate  mood  with  one  firm  conviction,  founded  largely, 
I  fear,  upon  a  picture  which  hung  by  my  bed  at 
home :  that  portraying  a  rising  from  the  dead,  the 
grave  below,  a  golden,  cloudy  heaven  above,  where- 
from  a  winged  angel  had  descended  to  take  the  hand 
of  the  free,  enraptured  soul.  And  my  conviction 
was  this,  that,  come  what  might  to  the  souls  of  the 
wicked,  the.  souls  of  the  good  were  upon  death  robed 
in  white  and  borne  aloft  to  some  great  bliss,  yet 
lingered,  by  the  way,  to  throw  back  a  tender  glance. 

I  had  never  seen  death  come. 

In  three  weeks  my  rations  were  exhausted,  and, 
since  it  would  have  been  ungenerous  in  me  to  con 
sume  Skipper  Tommy's  food,  I  had  the  old  man 
harness  the  dogs  and  take  me  home.  My  only  re- 


MARY  55 

gret  was  that  my  food  did  not  last  until  Skipper 
Tommy  had  managed  to  make  Tom  Tot  laugh. 
Many  a  night  the  old  man  had  tried  to  no  purpose, 
for  Tom  Tot  would  stare  him  stolidly  in  the  eye, 
however  preposterous  the  tale  to  be  told.  The  twins 
and  I  had  waited  in  vain — ready  to  explode  at  the 
right  moment :  but  never  having  the  opportunity. 
The  last  assault  on  Tom  Tot's  composure  had  been 
disastrous  to  the  skipper.  When,  with  highly  elabo 
rate  detail,  he  had  once  more  described  his  plan  for 
training  whales,  disclosing,  at  last,  his  intention  of 
having  a  wheel-house  on  what  he  called  the  forward 
deck 

"  What  about  the  fo'c's'le  ?  "  Tom  Tot  solemnly 
asked. 

"  Eh  ?  "  gasped  the  skipper.     "  Fo'c's'le  ?  " 

"Ay,"  said  Tom  Tot,  in  a  melancholy  drawl. 
"  Isn't  you  give  a  thought  t'  the  crew  ?  " 

Skipper  Tommy  was  nonplussed. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Tom,  "  I  s'pose  you'll  be  havin'  t' 
fit  up  Jonah's  quarters  for  them  poor  men !  " 

At  home,  in  the  evening,  while  my  mother  and 
father  and  sister  and  I  were  together  in  the  glow  of 
the  fire,  we  delighted  to  plan  the  entertainment  of  the 
doctor  who  was  coming  to  cure  my  mother.  He 
must  have  the  armchair  from  the  best  room  below, 


56        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

my  mother  said,  that  he  might  sit  in  comfort,  as  all 
doctors  should,  while  he  felt  her  pulse;  he  must 
have  a  refreshing  nip  from  the  famous  bottle  of 
Jamaica  rum,  which  had  lain  in  untroubled  seclusion 
since  before  I  was  born,  waiting  some  occasion  of 
vast  importance;  and  he  must  surely  not  take  her 
unaware  in  a  slatternly  moment,  but  must  find  her 
lying  on  the  pillows,  wearing  her  prettiest  night 
gown,  which  was  thereupon  newly  washed  and  ironed 
and  stowed  away  in  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  bureau 
against  his  unexpected  coming.  But  while  the  snow 
melted  from  the  hills,  and  the  folk  returned  to  the 
coast  for  the  seal  fishing,  and  the  west  winds  carried 
the  ice  to  sea,  and  we  waited  day  by  day  for  the 
mail-boat,  our  spirits  fell,  for  my  mother  was  then 
fast  failing.  And  I  discovered  this  strange  circum 
stance:  that  while  her  strength  withered,  her  hope 
grew  large,  and  she  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  things 
she  would  do  when  the  doctor  had  made  her  well ; 
and  I  wondered  why  that  was,  but  puzzled  to  no 
purpose. 


VI 

The    MAN    on    The    MAIL-BOAT 

IT  was  in  the  dusk  of  a  wet  night  of  early  June, 
with  the  sea  in  a  tumble  and  the  wind  blowing 
fretfully  from  the  west  of  north,  that  the  mail- 
boat  made  our  harbour.  For  three  weeks  we  had 
kept  watch  for  her,  but  in  the  end  we  were  caught 
unready — the  lookouts  in  from  the  Watchman,  my 
father's  crew  gone  home,  ourselves  at  evening  prayer 
in  the  room  where  my  mother  lay  abed.  My  father 
stopped  dead  in  his  petition  when  the  first  hoarse, 
muffled  blast  of  the  whistle  came  uncertain  from  the 
sea,  and  my  own  heart  fluttered  and  stood  still,  until, 
rising  above  the  rush  of  the  wind  and  the  noise  of 
the  rain  upon  the  panes,  the  second  blast  broke  the 
silence  within.  Then  with  a  shaking  cry  of  "  Lord 
God,  'tis  she ! "  my  father  leaped  from  his  knees,  ran 
for  his  sea-boots  and  oilskins,  and  shouted  from 
below  for  my  sister  to  make  ready  his  lantern.  But, 
indeed,  he  had  to  get  his  lantern  for  himself;  for  my 
mother,  who  was  now  in  a  flush  of  excitement,  speak 
ing  high  and  incoherently,  would  have  my  sister  stay 
with  her  to  make  ready  for  the  coming  of  the  doctor 

57 


58        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

— to  dress  her  hair,  and  tidy  the  room,  and  lay  out 
the  best  coverlet,  and  help  on  with  the  dainty  night 
gown. 

"  Ay,  mother,"  my  sister  said,  laughing,  to  quiet 
her,  "  I'll  not  leave  you.  Sure,  my  father's  old 
enough  t'  get  his  own  lantern  ready." 

"  The  doctor's  come ! "  I  shouted,  contributing 
a  lad's  share  to  the  excitement.  "  He've  come ! 
Hooray !  He've  come ! " 

"  Quick,  Bessie  ! "  cried  my  mother.  "  He'll  be 
here  before  we  know  it.  And  my  hair  is  in  a  fear 
ful  tangle.  The  looking-glass,  lassie " 

I  left  them  in  the  thick  of  this  housewifely  agita 
tion.  Donning  my  small  oil-skins,  as  best  as  I  could 
without  my  kind  sister's  help — and  I  shed  impatient 
tears  over  the  stiff  button-holes,  which  my  fingers 
would  not  manage — I  stumbled  down  the  path  to 
the  wharf,  my  exuberant  joy  escaping,  the  while,  in 
loud  halloos.  There  I  learned  that  the  mail-boat  lay 
at  anchor  off  the  Gate,  and,  as  it  appeared,  would 
not  come  in  from  the  sea,  but  would  presently  be  off 
to  Wayfarer's  Tickle,  to  the  north,  where  she  would 
harbour  for  the  night.  The  lanterns  were  shining 
cheerily  in  the  dark  of  the  wharf;  and  my  father  was 
speeding  the  men  who  were  to  take  the  great  skiff 
out  for  the  spring  freight — barrels  of  flour  and  pork 
and  the  like — and  roundly  berating  them,  every  one 


The  MAN  on   The  MAIL-BOAT  59 

in  a  way  which  surprised  them  into  unwonted 
activity.  Perceiving  that  my  father's  temper  and 
this  mad  bustle  were  to  be  kept  clear  of  by  wise  lads, 
I  slipped  into  my  father's  punt,  which  lay  waiting  by 
the  wharf-stairs  ;  and  there,  when  the  skiff  was  at  last 
got  underway,  I  was  found  by  my  father  and  Skip 
per  Tommy  Lovejoy. 

"  Ashore  with  you,  Davy,  lad ! "  said  my  father. 
"  There'll  be  no  room  for  the  doctor.  He'll  be 
wantin'  the  stern  seat  for  hisself." 

"  Leave  the  boy  bide  where  he  is,"  Skipper 
Tommy  put  in.  "  Sure,  he'll  do  no  harm,  an' — an' — 
why,  zur,"  as  if  that  were  sufficient, "  he's  wantin'  t' 
go!" 

I  kept  silent — knowing  well  enough  that  Skipper 
Tommy  was  the  man  to  help  a  lad  to  his  desire. 

"  Ay,"  said  my  father,  "  but  I'm  wantin'  the  doc 
tor  t'  be  comfortable  when  he  comes  ashore." 

"  He'll  be  comfortable  enough,  zur.  The  lad'll 
sit  in  the  bow  an'  trim  the  boat.  Pass  the  lantern 
t1  Davy,  zur,  an'  come  aboard." 

My  father  continued  to  grumble  his  concern  for 
the  doctor's  comfort ;  but  he  leaned  over  to  pat  my 
shoulder  while  Skipper  Tommy  pushed  off:  for  he 
loved  his  little  son,  did  my  big  father — oh,  ay,  in 
deed,  he  did  !  We  were  soon  past  the  lumbering 
skiff — and  beyond  Frothy  Point — and  out  of  the 


60        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Gate — and  in  the  open  sea,  where  the  wind  was 
blowing  smartly  and  the  rain  was  flying  in  gusts. 
My  father  hailed  the  steamer's  small-boat,  inbound 
with  the  mail,  to  know  if  the  doctor  was  in  verity 
aboard ;  and  the  answer,  though  but  half  caught,  was 
such  that  they  bent  heartily  to  the  oars,  and  the 
punt  gave  a  great  leap  and  went  staggering  through 
the  big  waves  in  a  way  to  delight  one's  very  soul. 
Thus,  in  haste,  we  drew  near  the  steamer,  which  lay 
tossing  ponderously  in  the  ground-swell,  her  engines 
panting,  her  lamps  bright,  her  many  lights  shining 
from  port -hole  and  deck — all  so  cozy  and  secure  in 
the  dirty  night :  so  strange  to  our  bleak  coast ! 

At  the  head  of  the  ladder  the  purser  stood  waiting 
to  know  about  landing  the  freight. 

"  Is  you  goin'  on  ?  "  my  father  asked. 

"  Ay — t'  Wayfarer's  Tickle,  when  we  load  your 
skiff." 

"  'Twill  be  alongside  in  a  trice.  But  my  wife's 
sick.  I'm  wantin'  t'  take  the  doctor  ashore." 

"  He's  aft  in  the  smokin'-room.  You'd  best  speak 
t'  the  captain  first.  Hold  her  ?  Oh,  sure,  he  II  hold 
her  all  night,  for  sickness  !  " 

They  moved  off  fonvard.  Then  Skipper  Tommy 
took  my  hand — or,  rather,  I  took  his  ;  for  I  was 
made  ill  at  ease  by  the  great,  wet  sweep  of  the  deck, 
glistening  with  reflections  of  bright  lights,  and  by  the 


The  MAN  on   The  MAIL-BOAT  61 

throng  of  strange  men,  and  by  the  hiss  of  steam  and 
the  clank  of  iron  coming  from  the  mysterious  depths 
below.  He  would  show  me  the  cabin,  said  he,  where 
there  was  unexampled  splendour  to  delight  in  ;  but 
when  we  came  to  a  little  house  on  the  after  deck, 
where  men  were  lounging  in  a  thick  fog  of  tobacco 
smoke,  I  would  go  no  further  (though  Skipper 
Tommy  said  that  words  were  spoken  not  meet  for 
the  ears  of  lads  to  hear) ;  for  my  interest  was  caught 
by  a  giant  pup,  which  was  not  like  the  pups  of  our 
harbour  but  a  lean,  long-limbed,  short-haired  dog, 
with  heavy  jaws  and  sagging,  blood-red  eyelids.  At 
a  round  table,  whereon  there  lay  a  short  dog-whip, 
his  master  sat  at  cards  with  a  stout  little  man  in  a 
pea-jacket — a  loose-lipped,  blear-eyed,  flabby  little 
fellow,  but,  withal,  hearty  in  his  own  way — and  him 
self  cut  a  curious  figure,  being  grotesquely  ill-fea 
tured  and  ill-fashioned,  so  that  one  rebelled  against 
the  sight  of  him. 

A  gust  of  rain  beat  viciously  upon  the  windows 
and  the  wind  ran  swishing  past. 

"  Tis  a  dirty  night,"  said  the  dog's  master,  shuf 
fling  nervously  in  his  seat. 

At  this  the  dog  lifted  his  head  with  a  sharp  snarl : 
whereupon,  in  a  flash,  the  man  struck  him  on  the 
snout  with  the  butt  of  the  whip. 

"  That's  for  you  !  "  he  growled. 


62        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

The  dog  regarded  him  sullenly — his  upper  lip  still 
lifted  from  his  teeth. 

"  Eh  ?  "  the  man  taunted.  "  Will  you  have  an 
other  ?  " 

The  dog's  head  subsided  upon  his  paws ;  but  his 
eyes  never  once  left  his  master's  face — and  the  eyes 
were  alert,  steady,  hard  as  steel. 

"  You're  1'arnin',''  the  man  drawled. 

But  the  dog  had  learned  no  submission,  but,  if 
anything,  only  craft,  as  even  I,  a  child,  could  per 
ceive  ;  and  1  marvelled  that  the  man  could  conceive 
himself  to  be  winning  the  mastery  of  that  splendid 
brute.  'Twas  no  way  to  treat  a  dog  of  that  disposi 
tion.  It  had  been  a  wanton  blow — taken  with  not 
so  much  as  a  whimper.  Mastery  ?  Hut !  The  beast 
was  but  biding  his  time.  And  I  wished  him  well  in 
the  issue.  "  Ecod  !  "  thought  I,  with  heat.  "  I  hopes 
he  gets  a  good  grip  o'  the  throat ! "  Whether  or 
not,  at  the  last,  it  was  the  throat,  I  do  not  know ; 
but  I  do  know  the  brutal  tragedy  of  that  man's  end, 
for,  soon,  he  came  rough-shod  into  our  quiet  life, 
and  there  came  a  time  when  I  was  hot  on  his  trail, 
and  rejoiced,  deep  in  the  wilderness,  to  see  the  snow 
all  trampled  and  gory.  But  the  telling  of  that  is  for 
a  later  page ;  the  man  had  small  part  in  the  scene 
immediately  approaching :  it  was  another.  When 
the  wind  and  rain  again  beat  angrily  upon  the  ship, 


The  MAN  on   The  MAIL-BOAT          63 

his  look  of  triumph  at  once  gave  place  to  cowardly 
concern ;  and  he  repeated : 

"  Tis  a  dirty  night." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  other,  and,  frowning,  spread  his 
cards  before  him.  "  What  do  you  make,  Jagger  ?  " 

My  father  came  in — and  with  him  a  breath  of  wet, 
cool  air,  which  I  caught  with  delight. 

"  Ha  !  "  he  cried,  heartily,  advancing  upon  the 
flabby  little  man,  "  we  been  waitin'  a  long  time  for 
you,  doctor.  Thank  God,  you've  come,  at  last !  " 

"  Fifteen,  two "  said  the  doctor. 

My  father  started.  "  I'm  wantin'  you  t'  take  a 
look  at  my  poor  wife,"  he  went  on,  renewing  his 
heartiness  with  an  effort.  "  She've  been  wonderful 
sick  all  winter,  an'  we  been  waitin' " 

"  Fifteen,  four,"  said  the  doctor;  "  fifteen,  six " 

"  Doctor,"  my  father  said,  touching  the  man  on 
the  shoulder,  while  Jagger  smiled  some  faint  amuse 
ment,  "  does  you  hear  ?  " 

It  was  suddenly  very  quiet  in  the  cabin. 

"  Fifteen,  eight "  said  the  doctor. 

My  father's  voice  changed  ominously.  "  Is  you 
listenin',  zur  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sick,  is  she  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  Fifteen,  ten. 
I've  got  you,  Jagger,  sure  .  .  .  'Tis  no  fit 
night  for  a  man  to  go  ashore  .  .  .  Fifteen, 
ten,  did  I  say  ?  and  one  for  his  nibs  .  .  .  Go 


64        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

fetch  her  aboard,  man  .  .  .  And  two  for  his 
heels " 

My  father  laid  his  hand  over  the  doctor's  cards. 
"  Was  you  sayin',"  he  asked,  "  t'  fetch  her  aboard  ?  " 

The  doctor  struck  the  hand  away. 

"  Was  you  sayin', "  my  father  quietly  persisted,  "  t' 
fetch  her  aboard  ?  " 

I  knew  my  father  for  a  man  of  temper ;  and,  now, 
I  wondered  that  his  patience  lasted. 

"  Damme  !  "  the  doctor  burst  out.  "  Think  I'm 
going  ashore  in  this  weather  ?  If  you  want  me  to 
see  her  now,  go  fetch  her  aboard." 

My  father  coughed — then  fingered  the  neck-band 
of  his  shirt. 

"  I  wants  t'  get  this  here  clear  in  my  mind,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "  Is  you  askin'  me  t'  fetch  that  sick 
woman  aboard  this  here  ship  ?  " 

The  doctor  leaned  over  the  table  to  spit. 

"  Has  I  got  it  right,  zur  ?  " 

In  the  pause  the  spectators  softly  withdrew  to  the 
further  end  of  the  cabin. 

"  If  he  won't  fetch  her  aboard,  Jagger,"  said  the 
doctor,  turning  to  the  dog's  master,  "  she'll  do  very 
well,  I'll  be  bound,  till  we  get  back  from  the  north. 
Eh,  Jagger  ?  If  he  cared  very  much,  he'd  fetch  her 
aboard,  wouldn't  he  ?  " 

Jagger  laughed. 


The  MAN  on  The  MAIL-BOAT  65 

"  Ay,  she'll  do  very  well,"  the  doctor  repeated, 
now  addressing  my  father,  "  till  we  get  back.  I'll 
take  a  look  at  her  then." 

I  saw  the  color  rush  into  my  father's  face.  Skip 
per  Tommy  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Easy,  now,  Skipper  David  !  "  he  muttered. 

"  Is  I  right,"  said  my  father,  bending  close  to  the 
doctor's  face,  "  in  thinkin'  you  says  you  wont  come 
ashore  ?  " 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Is  I  right,"  pursued  my  father,  his  voice  rising, 
"  in  thinkin'  the  gov'ment  pays  you  t'  tend  the  sick 
o'  this  coast  ?  " 

"  That's  my  business,"  flashed  the  doctor.  "  That's 
my  business,  sir  !  " 

Jagger  looked  upon  my  father's  angry  face  and 
smiled. 

"  Is  we  right,  doctor,"  said  Skipper  Tommy,  "  in 
thinkin'  you  knows  she  lies  desperate  sick  ?  " 

"  Damme  !  "  cried  the  doctor.  "  I've  heard  that 
tale  before.  You're  a  pretty  set,  you  are,  to  try  to 
play  on  a  man's  feelings  like  that.  But  you  can't 
take  me  in.  No,  you  can't,"  he  repeated,  his  loose 
under-lip  trembling.  '< You're  a  pretty  set,  you 
are.  But  you  can't  come  it  over  me.  Don't  you  go 
blustering,  now !  You  can't  come  your  bluster  on 
me.  Understand  ?  You  try  any  bluster  on  me,  and, 


60        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

by  heaven !  I'll  let  every  man  of  your  harbour  die  in 
his  tracks.  I'm  the  doctor,  here,  I  want  you  to 
know.  And  I'll  not  go  ashore  in  weather  like 
this." 

My  father  deliberately  turned  to  wave  Skipper 
Tommy  and  me  out  of  the  way :  then  laid  a  heavy 
hand  on  the  doctor's  shoulder. 

"  You'll  not  come  ?  " 

•«  Damned  if  I  will ! " 

"  By  God  !  "  roared  my  father.     "  I'll  take  you  !  " 

At  once,  the  doctor  sought  to  evade  my  father's 
grasp,  but  could  not,  and,  being  unwise,  struck  him 
on  the  breast.  My  father  felled  him.  The  man  lay 
in  a  flabby  heap  under  the  table,  roaring  lustily  that 
he  was  being  murdered  ;  but  so  little  sympathy  did 
his  plight  extract,  that,  on  the  contrary,  every  man 
within  happy  reach,  save  Jagger  and  Skipper 
Tommy,  gave  him  a  hearty  kick,  taking  no  pains,  it 
appeared,  to  choose  the  spot  with  mercy.  As  for 
Jagger,  he  had  snatched  up  his  whip,  and  was  now 
raining  blows  on  the  muzzle  of  the  dog,  which  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  uproar  to  fly  at  his  legs.  In 
this  confusion,  the  Captain  flung  open  the  door  and 
strode  in.  He  was  in  a  fuming  rage  ;  but,  being  no 
man  to  take  sides  in  a  quarrel,  sought  no  explana 
tion,  but  took  my  father  by  the  arm  and  hurried 
him  without,  promising  him  redress,  the  while,  at  an- 


The  MAN  on   The  M AIL-BO  A7          67 

other  time.  Thus  presently  we  found  ourselves  once 
more  in  my  father's  punt,  pushing  out  from  the  side 
of  the  steamer,  which  was  already  underway,  chug 
ging  noisily. 

"  Hush,  zur  !  "  said  Skipper  Tommy  to  my  father. 
"  Curse  him  no  more,  zur.  The  good  Lard,  who 
made  us,  made  him,  also." 

My  father  cursed  the  harder. 

"  Stop,"  cried  the  skipper,  "  or  I'll  be  cursin'  him, 
too,  zur.  God  made  that  man,  I  tells  you.  He  must 
have  gone  an'  made  that  man." 

"  I  hopes  He'll  damn  him,  then,"  said  I. 

"  God  knowed  what  He  was  doin'  when  he  made 
that  man,"  the  skipper  persisted,  continuing  in  faith 
against  his  will.  "  I  tells  you  I'll  not  doubt  His  wis 
dom.  He  made  that  man  .  .  .  He  made  that 
man  .  .  .  He  made  that  man  .  .  ." 

To  this  refrain  we  rowed  into  harbour. 

We  found  my  mother's  room  made  very  neat,  and 
very  grand,  too,  I  thought,  with  the  shaded  lamp 
and  the  great  armchair  from  the  best-room  below ; 
and  my  mother,  now  composed,  but  yet  flushed  with 
expectation,  was  raised  on  many  snow-white  pillows, 
lovely  in  the  fine  gown,  with  one  thin  hand,  wherein 
she  held  a  red  geranium,  lying  placid  on  the  cover 
let. 

"  I  am  ready,  David,"  she  said  to  my  father. 


68        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

There  was  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall  be 
low.  It  was  Skipper  Tommy,  as  I  knew. 

"Is  that  he?"  asked  my  mother.  "Bring  him 
up,  David.  I  am  quite  ready." 

My  father  still  stood  silent  and  awkward  by  the 
door  of  the  room. 

"  David,"  said  my  poor  mother,  her  voice  break 
ing  with  sudden  alarm,  "  have  you  been  talking 
much  with  him  ?  What  has  he  told  you,  David  ? 
I'm  not  so  very  sick,  am  I  ?  " 

"  Well,  lass,"  said  my  father,  "  'tis  a  great  season 
for  all  sorts  o'  sickness — an'  the  doctor  is  sick  abed 
hisself — an'  he — couldn't — come." 

"  Poor  man  ! "  sighed  my  mother.  "  But  he'll 
come  ashore  on  the  south'ard  trip." 

"  No,  lass — no  ;  I  fear  he'll  not." 

"  Poor  man  !  " 

My  mother  turned  her  face  from  us.  She  trembled, 
once,  and  sighed,  and  then  lay  very  quiet.  I  knew 
in  my  childish  way  that  her  hope  had  fled  with  ours 
— that,  now,  remote  from  our  love  and  comfort — 
alone — all  alone — she  had  been  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  last  dread  prospect.  There  was  the  noise  of 
rain  on  the  panes  and  wind  without,  and  the  heavy 
tread  of  Skipper  Tommy's  feet,  coming  up  the  stair, 
but  no  other  sound.  But  Skipper  Tommy,  entering 
now,  moved  a  chair  to  my  mother's  bedside,  and  laid 


The  MAN  on   The  MAIL-BOAT  69 

a  hand  on  hers,  his  old  face  illumined  by  his  unfail 
ing  faith  in  the  glory  and  wisdom  of  his  God. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said.  "  Don't  you  go  gettin'  scared 
lass.  Don't  you  go  gettin'  scared  at — the  thing 
that's  comin' — t'  you.  Tis  nothin'  t'  fear,"  he  went 
on,  gloriously  confident.  "  'Tis  not  hard,  I'm  sure — 
the  Lard's  too  kind  for  that.  He  just  lets  us  think 
it  is,  so  He  can  give  us  a  lovely  surprise,  when  the 
time  comes.  Oh,  no,  'tis  not  hard!  'Tis  but  like 
wakin'  up  from  a  troubled  dream.  'Tis  like  wakin' 
t'  the  sunlight  of  a  new,  clear  day.  Ah,  'tis  a  pity 
us  all  can't  wake  with  you  t'  the  beauty  o'  the  morn 
ing  !  But  the  dear  Lard  is  kind.  There  comes 
an  end  t'  all  the  dreamin'.  He  takes  our  hand. 
'  The  day  is  broke,'  says  He.  '  Dream  no  more,  but 
rise,  child  o'  Mine,  an'  come  into  the  sunshine  with 
Me.'  'Tis  only  that  that's  comin'  t'  you — only  His 
gentle  touch — an'  the  waking.  Hush!  Don't  you 
go  gettin'  scared.  'Tis  a  lovely  thing — that's  comin' 
t'  you  !  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  my  mother  whispered,  turning. 
"  I'm  not  afraid,  Skipper  Tommy.  But  I'm  sad — oh 
I'm  sad — to  have  to  leave " 

She  looked  tenderly  upon  me. 


VII 

The  WOMAN  from  WOLF  COl/E 

MY  mother  lay  thus  abandoned  for  seven 
days.  It  was  very  still  and  solemn  in  the 
room — and  there  was  a  hush  in  all  the 
house ;  and  there  was  a  mystery,  which  even  the  break 
of  day  could  not  dissolve,  and  a  shadow,  which  the 
streaming  sunlight  could  not  drive  away.  Beyond 
the  broad  window  of  her  room,  the  hills  of  Skull 
Island  and  God's  Warning  stood  yellow  in  the  spring 
sunshine,  rivulets  dripping  from  the  ragged  patches 
of  snow  which  yet  lingered  in  the  hollows  ;  and  the 
harbour  water  rippled  under  balmy,  fragrant  winds 
from  the  wilderness  ;  and  workaday  voices,  strangely 
unchanged  by  the  solemn  change  upon  our  days, 
came  drifting  up  the  hill  from  my  father's  wharves ; 
and,  ay,  indeed,  all  the  world  of  sea  and  land  was 
warm  and  wakeful  and  light  of  heart,  just  as  it  used 
to  be.  But  within,  where  were  the  shadow  and 
the  mystery,  we  walked  on  tiptoe  and  spoke  in 
whispers,  lest  we  offend  the  spirit  which  had  en 
tered  in. 

By  day  my  father  was  occupied  with  the  men  of 
70 


'The   WOMAN  from   WOLF  COVE        71 

the  place,  \vlio  were  then  anxiously  fitting  out  for 
the  fishing  season,  which  had  come  of  a  sudden  with 
the  news  of  a  fine  sign  at  Battle  Harbour.  But  my 
mother  did  not  mind,  but,  rather,  smiled,  and  was 
content  to  know  that  he  was  about  his  business — as 
men  must  be,  whatever  may  come  to  pass  in  the  house 
— and  that  he  was  useful  to  the  folk  of  our  harbour, 
whom  she  loved.  And  my  dear  sister — whose  heart 
and  hands  God  fashioned  with  kind  purpose — gave 
full  measure  of  tenderness  for  both  ;  and  my  mother 
was  grateful  for  that,  as  she  ever  was  for  my  sister's 
loving  kindness  to  her  and  to  me  and  to  us  all. 

One  night,  being  overwrought  by  sorrow,  it  may 
be,  my  father  said  that  he  would  have  the  doctor- 
woman  from  Wolf  Cove  to  help  my  mother. 

"  For,"  said  he,  "  I  been  thinkin'  a  deal  about  she, 
o'  late,  an'  they's  no  tellin'  that  she  wouldn't  do  you 
good." 

My  mother  raised  her  eyebrows.  "  The  doctor- 
woman  !  "  cried  she.  "  Why,  David  ! " 

"  Ay,"  said  my  father,  looking  away,  "  I  s'pose  'tis 
great  folly  in  me  t'  think  it.  But  they  isn't  no  one 
else  t'  turn  to." 

And  that  was  unanswerable. 

"  There  seems  to  be  no  one  else,"  my  mother  ad 
mitted.  "  But,  David — the  doctor-woman  ?  " 

"  They  does  work  cures,"  my  father  pursued.     "  I'm 


72        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

not  knowin'  how  they  does  ;  but  they  does,  an'  that's 
all  I'm  sayin'.  Tim  Budderly  o'  the  Arm  told  me — 
an'  'twas  but  an  hour  ago — that  she  charmed  un  free 
o'  fits." 

"  I  have  heard,"  my  mother  mused,  "  that  they 
work  cures.  And  if " 

"  They's  no  knowin'  what  she  can  do,"  my  father 
broke  in,  my  mother  now  listening  eagerly.  "  An'  I 
just  wish  you'd  leave  me  go  fetch  her.  Won't  you, 
lass  ?  Come,  now  ! " 

"  Tis  no  use,  David,"  said  my  mother.  "  She 
couldn't  do  anything — for  me." 

"  Ay,  but,"  my  father  persisted,  "  you're  forgettin' 
that  she've  worked  cures  afore  this.  I'm  fair  be- 
lievin',"  he  added  with  conviction,  "  that  they's  virtue 
in  some  o'  they  charms.  Not  in  many,  maybe,  but 
in  some.  An'  she  might  work  a  cure  on  you.  I'm 
not  sayin'  she  will.  I'm  only  sayin'  she  might." 

My  mother  stared  long  at  the  white  washed  rafters 
overhead.  "  Oh,"  she  sighed,  plucking  at  the  cover 
let,  "  if  only  she  could  !  " 

"  She  might,"  said  my  father.  "  They's  no  tellin' 
till  you've  tried." 

"  'Tis  true,  David,"  my  mother  whispered,  still  fin 
gering  the  coverlet.  "  God  works  in  strange  ways — 
and  we've  no  one  else  in  this  land  to  help  us — and, 
perhaps,  He  might " 


The   WOMAN  from   WOLF  COVE        73 

My  father  was  quick  to  press  his  advantage. 
"  Ay,"  he  cried,  "  'tis  very  likely  she'll  cure  you." 

"  David,"  said  my  mother,  tearing  at  the  coverlet, 
"  let  us  have  her  over  to  see  me.  She  might  do  me 
good,"  she  ran  on,  eagerly.  "  She  might  at  least  tell 
me  what  I'm  ailing  of.  She  might  stop  the  pain. 
She  might  even 

"  Hush  !  "  my  father  interrupted,  softly.  "  Don't 
build  on  it,  dear,"  said  he,  who  had  himself,  but  a 
moment  gone,  been  so  eager  and  confident.  "  But 
we'll  try  what  she  can  do." 

"  Ay,  dear,"  my  mother  whispered,  in  a  voice 
grown  very  weak,  "  we'll  try." 

Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  would  have  my  father 
leave  him  fetch  the  woman  from  Wolf  Cove,  nor,  to 
my  father's  impatient  surprise,  would  hear  of  any 
other ;  and  he  tipped  me  a  happy  wink — which  had 
also  a  glint  of  mystery  in  it — when  my  father  said 
that  he  might :  whereby  I  knew  that  the  old  fellow 
was  about  the  business  of  the  book.  And  three 
days  later,  being  on  the  lookout  at  the  window  of 
my  mother's  room,  I  beheld  the  punt  come  back  by 
way  of  North  Tickle,  Skipper  Tommy  labouring 
heavily  at  the  oars,  and  the  woman,  squatted  in  the 
stern,  serenely  managing  the  sail  to  make  the  best  of 
a  capful  of  wind.  I  marvelled  that  the  punt  should 


74        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

make  headway  so  poor  in  the  quiet  water — and  that 
she  should  be  so  much  by  the  stern — and  that  Skip 
per  Tommy  should  be  bent  near  double — until,  by 
and  by,  the  doctor-woman  came  waddling  up  the 
path,  the  skipper  at  her  heels :  whereupon  I  mar 
velled  no  more,  for  the  reason  was  quite  plain. 

"  Ecod !  lad,"  the  skipper  whispered,  taking  me 
aside,  the  while  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  red  face  with 
his  hand ;  "  but  she'll  weigh  five  quintal  if  a  pound  ! 
She's  e-«dr-mous  !  'Twould  break  your  heart  t'  pull 
that  cargo  from  Wolf  Cove.  But  I  managed  it, 
lad,"  with  a  solemn  wink,  "  for  the  good  o'  the 
cause.  Hist !  now  ;  but  I  found  out  a  wonderful  lot 
— about  cures !  " 

Indeed,  she  was  of  a  bulk  most  extraordinary ;  and 
she  was  rolling  in  fat,  above  and  below,  though  it 
was  springtime  !  'Twas  a  wonder  to  me,  with  our 
folk  not  yet  fattened  by  the  more  generous  diet  of 
the  season,  that  she  had  managed  to  preserve 
her  great  double  chin  through  the  winter.  It  may 
be  that  this  unfathomable  circumstance  first  put  me 
in  awe  of  her  ;  but  I  am  inclined  to  think,  after  all, 
that  it  was  her  eyes,  which  were  not  like  the  eyes  of 
our  folk,  but  were  brown — dog's  eyes,  we  call  them 
on  our  coast,  for  we  are  a  blue-eyed  race — and  upon 
occasion  flashed  like  lightning.  So  much  weight 
did  she  carry  forward,  too,  that  I  fancied  (and  still 


The   WOMAN  from   WOLF  COl/E          75 

believe)  she  would  have  toppled  over  had  she  not 
long  ago  learned  to  outwit  nature  in  the  matter  of 
maintaining  a  balance.  And  an  odd  figure  she  cut, 
as  you  may  be  sure  !  For  she  was  dressed  some 
what  in  the  fashion  of  men,  with  a  cloth  cap,  rusty 
pea-jacket  and  sea-boots  (the  last,  for  some  mys 
terious  reason,  being  slit  up  the  sides,  as  a  brief 
skirt  disclosed)  ;  and  her  grizzled  hair  was  cut  short, 
in  the  manner  of  men,  but  yet  with  some  of  the 
coquetry  of  women.  In  truth,  as  we  soon  found  it 
was  her  boast  that  she  was  the  equal  of  men,  h«;r 
complaint  that  the  foolish  way  of  the  world  (which 
she  said  had  gone  all  askew)  would  not  let  her  skip 
per  a  schooner,  which,  as  she  maintained  in  a  deep 
bass  voice,  she  was  more  capable  of  doing  than  most 
men. 

"  I  make  no  doubt  o'  that,  mum,"  said  Skipper 
Tommy  Lovejoy,  to  whom,  in  the  kitchen,  that  night, 
she  propounded  her  strange  philosophy ;  "  but  you 
see,  mum,  'tis  the  way  o'  the  world,  an'  folks  just  will 
stick  t'  their  idees,  an',  mum,"  he  went  on,  with  a 
propitiating  smile,  "  as  you  is  only  a  woman, 
why " 

"  Only  a  woman  ! "  she  roared,  sitting  up  with  a 
jerk.  "  Does  you  say  — 

"  Why,  ay,  mum  !  "  Skipper  Tommy  put  in,  mildly. 
"  You  isn't  a  man,  is  you  ?  " 


76       DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

She  sat  dumb  and  transfixed. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Skipper  Tommy,  in  a  mildly 
argumentative  way,  "  'tis  as  I  says.  You  must  do 
as  the  women  does,  an'  not  as  a  man  might  want 
to " 

"  Mm-a-an  !  "  she  mocked,  in  a  way  that  withered 
the  poor  skipper.  "  No,  I  isn't  a  man  !  Was  you 
hearin'  me  say  I  was  ?  Oh,  you  wasn't,  wasn't  you  ? 
An'  is  you  thinkin'  I'd  be  a  man  an  I  could? 
What ! "  she  roared.  "  You  isn't  sure  about  that, 
isn't  you  ?  Oh,  my  !  Isn't  you  !  Well,  well !  He 
isn't  sure,"  appealing  to  me,  with  a  shaking  under 
lip.  "  Oh,  my !  There's  a  man — hes  a  man  for 
you — there's  a  man — puttin'  a  poor  woman  t'  scorn  ! 
Oh,  my ! "  she  wailed,  bursting  into  tears,  as  all 
women  will,  when  put  to  the  need  of  it.  "  Oh,  dear !  " 

Skipper  Tommy  was  vastly  concerned  for  her. 
"  My  poor  woman,"  he  began,  "  don't  you  be  cryin', 
now.  Come,  now " 

"  Oh,  his  poor  woman,"  she  interrupted,  bitingly. 
"His  poor  woman!  Oh,  my!  An'  I  s'pose  you 
thinks  'tis  the  poor  woman's  place  t'  work  in  the 
splittin'  stage  an'  not  on  the  deck  of  a  fore-an'-after. 
You  does,  does  you?  Ay,  'tis  what  I  s  posed!"  she 
said,  with  scorn.  "  An'  if  you  married  me"  she  con 
tinued,  transfixing  the  terrified  skipper  with  a  fat  fore 
finger,  "  I  s'pose  you'd  be  wantin'  me  t'  split  the  fish 


The   WOMAN  from    WOLF  COl^E          77 

you  cotched.  Oh,  you  would,  would  you?  Oh, 
my  !  But  I'll  have  you  t'  know,  Skipper  Thomas 
Lovejoy,"  with  a  sudden  and  alarming  change  of 
voice,  "  that  I've  the  makin's  of  a  better  ship's- 
master  than  you.  An'  by  the  Lord  Harry  !  I'm 
a  better  man"  saying  which,  she  leaped  from  her 
chair  with  surprising  agility,  and  began  to  roll  up 
her  sleeves, "  an'  I'll  prove  it  on  your  wisage !  Come 
on  with  you  !  "  she  cried,  striking  a  belligerent  atti 
tude,  her  fists  waving  in  a  fashion  most  terrifying. 
"  Come  on  an  you  dare ! " 

Skipper  Tommy  dodged  behind  the  table  in  great 
haste  and  horror. 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  cried  she.  "  He  won't !  Oh,  my ! 
There's  a  man  for  you.  An'  I'm  but  a  woman,  is  I. 
His  poor  woman.  Oh,  his  woman !  Look  you 
here,  Skipper  Thomas  Lovejoy,  you  been  stickin' 
wonderful  close  alongside  o'  me  since  you  come 
t'  Wolf  Cove,  an'  I'm  not  quite  knowin'  what  tricks 
you've  in  mind.  But  I'm  thinkin'  you're  like  all  the 
men,  an'  I'll  have  you  t'  know  this,  that  if  'tis  mar 
riage  with  me  you're  thinkin'  on " 

But  Skipper  Tommy  gasped  and  wildly  fled. 

"  Ha  ! "  she  snorted,  triumphantly.  "  I  was 
thinkin'  I  was  a  better  man  than  he  !  " 

"  Tis  a  shame,"  said  I,  "  t'  scare  un  so  !  " 

Whereat,  without  uttering  a  sound,  she  laughed 


78        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

until  the  china  clinked  and  rattled  on  the  shelves, 
and  I  thought  the  pots  and  pans  would  come  clatter 
ing  from  their  places.  And  then  she  strutted  the 
floor  for  all  the  world  like  a  rooster  once  I  saw  in  the 
South. 


VIII 
THE   BLIND  and   The   BLIND 

AH,  well !  at  once  she  set  about  the  cure  of 
my  mother.  And  she  went  tripping  about 
the  house— and  tripping  she  went,  believe 
me,  stout  as  she  was,  as  lightsome  as  one  of 
Skipper  Tommy's  fairies — with  a  manner  so  large 
and  confident,  a  glance  so  compelling,  that  '  twas  be 
yond  us  to  doubt  her  power  or  slight  her  commands. 
First  of  all  she  told  my  mother,  repeating  it  with  pa 
tience  and  persuasive  insistence,  that  she  would  be 
well  in  six  days,  and  must  believe  the  words  true, 
else  she  would  never  be  well,  at  all.  And  when  my 
mother  had  brightened  with  this  new  hope,  the 
woman,  muttering  words  without  meaning,  hung  a 
curious  brown  object  about  her  neck,  which  she  said 
had  come  from  a  holy  place  and  possessed  a  strange 
and  powerful  virtue  for  healing.  My  mother  fondled 
it,  with  glistening  eyes  and  very  tenderly,  and,  when 
the  doctor-woman  had  gone  out,  whispered  to  me 
that  it  was  a  horse-chestnut,  and  put  her  in  mind  of 
the  days  when  she  dwelt  in  Boston,  a  little  maid. 

"  But  'tis  not  healin'  you,"  I  protested,  touching  a 
79 


8o        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

tear  which  had  settled  in  the  deep  hollow  of  her 
cheek.  "  Tis  makin'  you  sad." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  she.  "  'Tis  making  me  very 
happy." 

"  But  you  is  cryin',"  said  I.  "  An'  I'm  thinkin' 
'tis  because  you  wisht  you  was  in  Boston." 

"  No,  no ! "  she  cried,  her  lip  trembling.  "  I'm 
not  wishing  that.  I've  never  wished  that !  I'm  glad 
your  father  found  me  and  took  me  where  he  wished. 
Oh,  I'm  glad  of  that — glad  he  found  and  loved  me — 
glad  I  gave  myself  to  his  dear  care  !  Why,  were  I 
in  Boston,  to-day,  I  would  not  have  my  dear,  big 
David,  your  father,  lad,  and  I  would  not  have  your 
sister,  and  I  would  not  have " 

"  Me  ?  "  I  put  in,  archly. 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  with  infinite  tenderness,  "you, 
Davy,  dear ! " 

For  many  days,  thereafter,  the  doctor-woman  pos 
sessed  our  house,  and  I've  no  doubt  she  was  happy  in 
her  new  estate — at  table,  at  any  rate,  for  there  she 
was  garrulent  and  active,  and  astoundingly  active, 
with  less  of  garrulence,  on  feast  days,  when  my 
father  had  pork  provided.  And  she  had  a  way  with 
the  maids  in  the  kitchen  that  kept  the  young  men 
from  the  door  (which  my  sister  never  could  manage) ; 
and  I  have  since  been  led  to  think  'twas  because  she 
sought  to  work  her  will  on  Skipper  Tommy  Love- 


THE  BLIND  and  The  BLIND  81 

joy,  undisturbed  by  the  clatter  and  quick  eyes  of 
young  folk.  For  Skipper  Tommy,  to  my  increasing 
alarm  and  to  the  panic  of  the  twins,  who  wished  for 
no  second  mother,  still  frequented  the  kitchen,  when 
the  day's  work  was  done,  and  was  all  the  while  in  a 
mood  so  downcast,  of  a  manner  so  furtive,  that  it 
made  me  sad  to  talk  with  him.  But  by  day  our 
kitchen  was  intolerable  with  smells — intolerable  to 
him  and  to  us  all  (save  to  my  sister,  who  is,  and  ever 
has  been,  brave) — while  the  doctor-woman  hung  over 
the  stove,  working  with  things  the  sight  of  which  my 
stomach  would  not  brook,  but  which  my  mother  took 
in  ignorance,  hoping  they  would  cure  her.  God  knows 
what  medicines  were  mixed  !  I  would  not  name  the 
things  I  saw.  And  the  doctor-woman  would  not  even 
have  us  ask  what  use  she  made  of  them  :  nor  have  I 
since  sought  to  know ;  'tis  best,  I  think,  forgotten. 

But  my  mother  got  no  better. 

"  Skipper  David,"  said  the  doctor-woman,  at  last, 
"  I'm  wantin'  four  lump-fish." 

"  Four  lump-fish !  "  my  father  wondered.  "  Is 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  ! "  she  answered,  tartly.  "  Is  I  ?  Yes,  I 
is.  An'  I'll  thank  you  t'  get  un  an'  ask  no  questions. 
For  I'm  mindin'  my  business,  an'  I'll  thank  you  t* 
mind  yours.  An'  if  you  thinks  you  can  do  the  doc- 
torin' " 


82        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR. 

"I'm  notseekin'  t'  hinder  you,"  said  my  father,  flush 
ing.  "  You  go  on  with  your  work.  I'll  pay ;  but  — 

"  Oh,  will  you  ?  "  she  cried,  shrilly.  "  He'll  pay, 
says  he.  Oh,  my  !  He'll  pay  !  Oh,  dear  !  " 

"  Come,  now,  woman  !  "  said  my  father,  indignantly. 
"  I've  had  you  come,  an'  I'll  stand  by  what  you  does. 
I'll  get  the  lump-fish;  but  'tis  the  last  cure  you'll  try. 
If  it  fails,  back  you  go  t'  Wolf  Cove." 

"  Oh,  my  ! "  said  she,  taken  aback.  "  Back  I  goes, 
does  I !  An' t'  Wolf  Cove  ?  Oh,  dear !  " 

My  father  sent  word  to  the  masters  of  the  cod- 
traps,  which  were  then  set  off  the  heads,  that  such 
sculpin  as  got  in  the  nets  by  chance  must  be  saved 
for  him.  He  was  overwrought,  as  I  have  said,  by 
sorrow,  overcome,  it  may  be,  by  the  way  this  woman 
had.  And  soon  he  had  for  her  four  green,  prickly- 
skinned,  jelly-like,  big-bellied  lump-fish,  which  were 
not  appetizing  to  look  upon,  though  I've  heard  tell 
that  starving  folk,  being  driven  to  it,  have  eaten  them. 
My  sister  would  not  be  driven  from  the  kitchen, 
though  the  woman  was  vehement  in  anger,  but  held 
to  it  that  she  must  know  the  character  of  the  dose 
my  mother  was  to  take.  So  they  worked  together — 
the  doctor-woman  scowling  darkly — until  the  medi 
cine  was  ready  :  which  was  in  the  late  evening  of  that 
day.  Then  they  went  to  my  mother's  room  to  ad 
minister  the  first  of  it. 


THE  BLIND  and  The  BLIND  83 

"  Tis  a  new  medicine,"  my  mother  said,  with  a 
smile,  when  she  held  the  glass  in  her  hand. 

"  Ay,"  crooned  the  doctor-woman, "  drink  it,  now, 
my  dear." 

My  mother  raised  the  glass  to  her  lips.  "  And 
what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  withdrawing  the  glass  with 
a  shudder. 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  the  doctor-woman  exclaimed.  "  'Tis 
but  a  soup.  'Twill  do  you  good." 

"  I'm  sure  it  will,"  my  mother  gently  said.  "  But 
I  wonder  what  it  is." 

Again  she  raised  the  glass  with  a  wry  face.  But 
my  sister  stayed  her  hand. 

"  I'll  not  have  you  take  it,"  said  she,  firmly,  "  with 
out  knowin'  what  it  is." 

The  doctor-woman  struck  her  arm  away.  "  Leave 
the  woman  drink  it!"  she  screamed,  now  in  a  gust 
of  passion. 

"  What's — this  you're — giving  me  ?  "  my  mother 
stammered,  looking  upon  the  glass  in  alarm  and  new 
disgust. 

"  Tis  the  eyes  o'  four  lump-fish,"  said  my  sister. 

My  mother  dropped  the  glass,  so  that  the  contents 
were  spilled  over  the  coverlet,  and  fell  back  on  the 
pillows,  where  she  lay  white  and  still. 

"  Out  with  you  ! "  said  my  sister  to  the  doctor- 
woman.  "  I'll  have  no  more  o'  your  cures !  " 


84        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Oh,  my  !  "  shrilled  the  woman,  dropping  into  her 
most  biting  manner.  She  won't  have  no  more  o'  my 
cures  !  Oh,  dear,  she 

"  Out  with  you  !  "  cried  my  sister,  as  she  smartly 
clapped  her  hands  under  the  woman's  nose.  "  Out 
o'  the  house  with  you  !  " 

"  Oh,  'tis  out  with  me,  is  it  ?  Out  o'  the  house  with 
me  !  Oh,  dear !  Out  o'  the  house  with  me !  I'll 
have  you  t'  know ' 

My  sister  ignored  the  ponderous  fist  raised  against 
her.  She  stamped  her  small  foot,  her  eyes  flashing, 
the  blood  flushing  her  cheeks  and  brow. 

"  Out  you  go  !  "  she  cried.  "  I'm  not  afeared  o' 
you  !  " 

I  stood  aghast  while  the  doctor-woman  backed 
through  the  door.  Never  before  had  I  known  my 
gentle  sister  to  flash  and  flush  with  angry  passion. 
Nor  have  I  since. 

Next  morning,  my  father  paid  the  woman  from 
Wolf  Cove  a  barrel  of  flour,  with  which  she  was  ill 
content,  and  traded  her  two  barrels  more  for  the 
horse-chestnut,  which  my  mother  wished  to  keep 
lying  on  her  breast,  because  it  comforted  her.  To 
Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  fell  the  lot  of  taking  the 
woman  back  in  the  punt;  for,  as  my  father  said, 
'twas  he  that  brought  her  safely,  and,  surely,  the  one 


THE  BLIND  and  The  BLIND  85 

who  could  manage  that  could  be  trusted  to  get  her 
back  without  accident. 

"  An'  'tis  parlous  work,  lad,"  said  the  skipper, 
with  an  anxious  shrug,  while  we  waited  on  the  wharf 
for  the  woman  to  come.  "  I'm  very  much  afeared. 
Ay,"  he  added,  frowning,  "  I  is  that !  " 

"  I'm  not  knowin'  why,"  said  I,  "  for  the  wind's 
blowin'  fair  from  the  sou' west,  an'  you'll  have  a  fine 
time  t'  Wolf  Cove." 

"  Tis  not  that,"  said  he,  quietly.  "  Hist ! "  jerk 
ing  his  head  towards  our  house,  where  the  woman  yet 
was.  "  'Tis  she  !  " 

"  I'd  not  be  afeared  o'  she"  said  I.  "  'Twas  but 
last  night,"  I  added,  proudly,  "  my  sister  gave  her  her 
tea  in  a  mug." 

"  Oh,  ay,"  said  he,  "  I  heared  tell  o'  that.  But  'tis 
not  t'  the  point.  Davy,  lad,"  in  an  undertone  which 
betrayed  great  agitation,  "  she've  her  cap  set  for  a 
man,  an'  she's  desperate." 

"  Ay  ?  "  said  I. 

He  bent  close  to  my  ear.  "  An'  she've  her  eye  on 
me  !  "  he  whispered. 

"  Skipper  Tommy,"  I  earnestly  pleaded,  "  don't 
you  go  an'  do  it." 

"  Well,  lad,"  he  answered,  pulling  at  his  nose,  "  the 
good  Lard  made  me  what  I  is.  I'm  not  complainin1 


86        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

o'  the  taste  He  showed.  No,  no  !  I  would  not  think 
o1  doin'  that.  But  — 

"  He  made  you  kind,"  I  broke  in,  hotly,  "  an'  such 
as  good  folk  love." 

"  I'm  not  knowin'  much  about  that,  Davy.  The 
good  Lard  made  me  as  He  willed.  But  I'm  an 
obligin'  man.  I've  turned  out,  Davy,  most  wonder 
ful  obligin'.  I'm  always  doin'  what  folks  wants  me 
to.  Such  men  as  me,  lad,"  he  went  on,  precisely 
indicating  the  weakness  of  his  tender  character,  "  is 
made  that  way.  An'  if  she  tells  me  she's  a  lone 
woman,  and  if  she  begins  t'  cry,  what  is  I  to  do  ? 
An'  if  I  has  t'  pass  me  word,  Davy,  t'  stop  her  tears ! 
Eh,  lad  ?  Will  you  tell  me,  David  Roth,  what  is  I 
t'  do  ?  " 

"  Turn  the  punt  over,"  said  I,  quickly.  "  They's 
wind  enough  for  that,  man !  An'  'tis  your  only 
chance,  Skipper  Tommy — 'tis  the  only  chance  you 
got — if  she  begins  t'  cry." 

He  was  dispirited.  "  I  wisht,"  he  said,  sadly, 
"  that  the  Lard  hadn't  made  me  quite  so  obligin'  ! " 

"  'Tis  too  bad  !  " 

"  Ay,"  he  sighed,  "  'tis  too  bad  I  can't  trust  me- 
self  in  the  company  o'  folk  that's  givin'  t'  weepin'.  " 

"  I'll  have  the  twins  pray  for  you,"  I  ventured. 

"  Do  !  "  he  cried,  brightening.  "  Tis  a  grand 
thought !  An'  do  you  tell  them  two  dear  lads  that 


THE  BLIND  and   The  BLIND  87 

I'll  never  give  in — no,  lad,  their  father'll  never  give 
in  t'  that  woman — till  he's  just  got  to." 

"  But,  Skipper  Tommy,"  said  I,  now  much 
alarmed,  so  hopeless  was  his  tone,  stout  as  his  words 
were,  "  tell  my  father  you're  not  wantin'  t'  go. 
Sure,  he  can  send  Elisha  Turr  in  your  stead." 

"  Ay,"  said  he,  "  but  I  is  wantin'  t'  go.  That's  it. 
I'm  thinkin'  all  the  time  o'  the  book,  lad.  I'm 
wantin'  t'  make  that  book  a  good  book.  I'm 
wantin'  t'  learn  more  about  cures." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  her  cures  isn't  worth  much," 
said  I. 

He  patted  me  on  the  head.  "  You  is  but  a  lad," 
said  he,  indulgent  with  my  youth,  "  an'  your  judg 
ment  isn't  well  growed  yet.  Some  o'  they  cures  is 
bad,  no  doubt,"  he  added,  "  an'  some  is  good.  I 
wants  no  bad  cures  in  my  book.  I'll  not  have  them 
there.  But  does  you  think  I  can't  try  un  all  on  meself 
afore  I  has  un  put  in  the  book  ?  " 

When  the  punt  was  well  through  North  Tickle, 
on  a  free,  freshening  wind,  I  sped  to  the  Rat  Hole 
to  apprise  the  twins  of  their  father's  unhappy  situa 
tion,  and  to  beg  of  them  to  be  constant  and  im 
portunate  in  prayer  that  he  might  be  saved  from  the 
perils  of  that  voyage.  Then,  still  running  as  fast  as 
my  legs  would  go,  I  returned  to  our  house,  where, 


88        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

again,  I  found  the  shadow  and  the  mystery,  and  the 
hush  in  all  the  rooms. 

"Davy!" 

"  Ay,  Bessie,"  I  answered.     "  Tis  I." 

"  Our  mother's  wantin'  you,  dear." 

I  tiptoed  up  the  stair,  and  to  the  bed  where  my 
mother  lay,  and,  very  softly,  I  laid  my  cheek  against 
her  lips. 

"  My  sister  sent  me,  mum,"  I  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed.     "  I'm — just  wanting  you." 

Her  arm,  languid  and  light,  stole  round  my  waist. 


IX 
A    WRECK    on   The    THIRTY   DEVILS 

FOG — thick,  stifling,  clammy  !  A  vast  bank  of 
it  lay  stranded  on  the  rocks  of  our  coast: 
muffling  voices,  making  men  gasp.  In  a 
murky  cloud  it  pressed  against  my  mother's  windows. 
Wharves,  cottages,  harbour  water,  great  hills  beyond — 
the  whole  world — had  vanished.  There  was  noth 
ing  left  but  a  patch  of  smoking  rock  beneath.  It 
had  come — a  grey  cloud,  drifting  low  and  languidly — 
with  a  lazy  draught  of  wind  from  the  east,  which  had 
dragged  it  upon  the  coast,  spread  it  broadcast  and 
expired  of  the  effort  to  carry  it  into  the  wilderness. 

"  Wonderful  thick,  b'y  !  "  was  the  salutation  for  the 
day. 

"  'S  mud,"  was  the  response. 

Down  went  the  barometer — down,  down,  slowly, 
uncompromisingly  down !  'Twas  shocking  to  the 
nerves  to  consult  it. 

"  An'  I'm  tellin'  you  this,  lads,"  said  a  man  on  my 
father's  wharf,  tugging  uneasily  at  his  sou'wester, 
"  that  afore  midnight  you'll  be  needin'  t'  glue  your 
hair  on ! " 

89 


90        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

This  feeling  of  apprehension  was  everywhere — on 
the  roads,  in  the  stages,  in  the  very  air.  No  man  of 
our  harbour  put  to  sea.  With  the  big  wind  coming, 
'twas  no  place  for  punt,  schooner  or  steamer.  The 
waters  off  shore  were  set  with  traps  for  the  unwary 
and  the  unknowing — the  bluffs  veiled  by  mist,  the 
drift  ice  hidden,  the  reefs  covered  up.  In  a  gale  of 
wind  from  the  east  there  would  be  no  escape. 

Through  the  dragging  day  my  mother  had  been 
restless  and  in  pain.  In  the  evening  she  turned  to  us. 

"  I'm  tired,"  she  whispered. 

Tired  ?  Oh,  ay !  She  was  tired — very,  very  tired  ! 
It  was  near  time  for  her  to  rest.  She  was  sadly 
needing  that. 

"  An'  will  you  try  t'  sleep,  now  ?  "  my  sister  asked. 

"  Ay,"  she  answered,  wanly,  "  I'll  sleep  a  bit,  now, 
if  I  can.  Where's  Davy  ?  " 

"  Sure,  mama,"  said  I,  in  surprise,  "  I'm  sittin'  right 
by  the  bed  ! " 

"  Ah,  Davy  !  "  she  whispered,  happily,  stretching 
out  a  hand  to  touch  me.  "  My  little  son  !  " 

"  An'  I  been  sittin'  here  all  the  time  !  "  said  I. 

"  All  the  time  ?  "  she  said.  "  But  I've  been  so  sick, 
dear,  I  haven't  noticed  much.  And  'tis  so  dark." 

"  No,  mum  ;  'tis  not  so  very.  'Tis  thick,  but  'tis 
not  so  very  dark.  'Tis  not  lamp-lightin'  time  yet." 


A   WRECK  on   The   THIRTY  DEVILS      91 

"  How  strange !  "  she  muttered.  "  It  seems  so 
very  dark.  Ah,  well !  Do  you  go  out  for  a  run  in 
the  air,  dear,  while  your  mother  sleeps.  I'm  think 
ing  I'll  be  better — when  I've  had  a  little  sleep." 

My  sister  busied  herself  with  the  pillows  and  cov 
erlet  ;  and  she  made  all  soft  and  neat,  that  my 
mother  might  rest  the  better  for  it. 

"  You're  so  tender  with  me,  dear,"  said  my  mother 
"  Every  day  I  bless  God  for  my  dear  daughter." 

My  sister  kissed  my  mother.  "  Hush  !  "  she  said. 
"  Do  you  go  t'  sleep,  now,  little  mother.  'Twill  do 
you  good." 

"  Yes,"  my  mother  sighed,  "  for  I'm — so  very — 
tired." 

When  she  had  fallen  asleep,  I  slung  my  lantern 
over  my  arm  and  scampered  off  to  the  Rat  Hole  to 
yarn  with  the  twins,  making  what  speed  I  could  in 
the  fog  and  untimely  dusk,  and  happy,  for  the  mo 
ment,  to  be  free  of  the  brooding  shadow  in  our  house. 
The  day  was  not  yet  fled ;  but  the  light  abroad — a 
sullen  greyness,  splashed  with  angry  red  in  the  west, 
where  the  mist  was  thinning — was  fading  fast  and 
fearfully.  And  there  was  an  ominous  stirring  of 
wind  in  the  east :  at  intervals,  storm  puffs  came 
swirling  over  the  hills  from  the  sea ;  and  they  ran  off 
inland  like  mad,  leaving  the  air  of  a  sudden  once 


92        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

more  stagnant.  Fresh  and  cool  they  were — grateful 
enough,  indeed,  blowing  through  the  thick,  dead 
dusk — but  sure  warning,  too,  of  great  gusts  to  come. 
We  were  to  have  weather — a  gale  from  the  northeast, 
by  all  the  lore  of  the  coast — and  it  would  be  a  wild 
night,  with  the  breakers  of  Raven  Rock  and  the 
Thirty  Black  Devils  leaping  high  and  merrily  in  the 
morning.  As  I  ran  down  the  last  hill,  with  an  eye 
on  the  light  glowing  in  the  kitchen  window  of  Skip 
per  Tommy  Lovejoy's  cottage,  I  made  shift  to  hope 
that  the  old  man  had  made  harbour  from  Wolf  Cove, 
but  thought  it  most  unlikely. 

He  had. 

"You  got  home,  Skipper  Tommy,"  I  cried, 
shouldering  the  door  shut  against  a  gust  of  wind, "  an* 
I'm  glad  o'  that !  'Tis  goin'  t'  blow  most  awful,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

My  welcome  was  of  the  gloomiest  description.  I 
observed  that  the  twins,  who  lay  feet  to  feet  on  the 
corner-seat,  did  not  spring  to  meet  me,  but  were  cast 
down ;  and  that  Skipper  Tommy,  himself,  sitting 
over  the  fire  with  a  cup  of  tea  on  the  table  at  his 
elbow,  was  glum  as  a  deacon. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  looking  up  with  the  ghost  of  a 
laugh,  "  I  got  in.  You  wasn't  frettin'  about  me,  was 
you,  Davy?  Oh,  don't  you  ever  go  frettin'  about 
me,  lad,  when — ah,  well ! — when  they's  nothin'  but 


A   WRECK  on   The   THIRTY  DEVILS     93 

fog  t'  fear.  Sure,  'twasn't  no  trouble  for  me  t'  find 
North  Tickle  in  the  fog.  Ah,  me !  If  'twas  only 
that !  Sure,  I  bumped  her  nose  agin  the  point  o' 
God's  Warning,  an'  rattled  her  bones  a  bit,  but,  lad, 
me  an'  the  punt  is  used  t'  little  things  like  that.  Oh, 
ay,"  he  repeated,  dismally,  "  I  got  in" 

Evidently  the  worst  had  happened.  "  Did  you  ?  " 
said  I,  blankly.  "  An'  was  you — was  you — cotched?  " 

"  Is  you  thinkin'  o'  she,  Davy  ? "  he  answered. 
"  Well,"  in  a  melancholy  drawl,  smoothing  his  stub 
ble  of  grey  beard,  his  forehead  deeply  furrowed, 
"  I'm  not  admittin'  I  is.  But,  Davy,"  he  added, "  she 
cast  a  hook,  an' — well,  I — I  nibbled.  Yes,  I  did,  lad  ! 
I  went  an'  nibbled  !  " 

One  of  the  twins  started  up  in  alarm.  "  Hark  !  " 
he  whispered. 

We  listened — but  heard  nothing.  A  gust  of  wind 
rattled  the  window,  and,  crying  hoarsely,  swept 
under  the  house.  There  was  nothing  more  than  that. 

"  Hist ! "  said  the  twin. 

We  heard  only  the  ominous  mutter  and  sigh  of  the 
gust  departing. 

"  Jacky,"  said  the  skipper,  anxiously,  "  what  was 
you  thinkin'  you  heared,  b'y  ?  " 

Jacky  fidgetted  in  his  seat.  "  Twas  like  the  mail- 
boat's  whistle,  zur,"  he  answered,  "  but  'twas  sort  o' 
hoarser." 


94   DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Why,  lad,"  said  the  skipper,  "  the  mail-boat's 
not  handy  by  two  hundred  miles  !  Twas  but  the 
wind." 

But  he  scratched  his  head  in  a  puzzled  way. 

"  Ay,  maybe,  zur,"  Jacky  replied,  still  alert  for  a 
sound  from  the  sea,  "  but  'twas  not  like  the  wind." 

Skipper  Tommy  held  up  his  hand.  "  Ay,"  said 
he,  when  we  had  listened  a  long  time,  "  'twas  but 
the  wind." 

"  Ay,"  said  we  all,  "  'twas  but  the  wind." 

"  Ah,  well,  Davy,"  the  skipper  resumed,  "  she  cast 
a  hook,  as  I  was  sayin',  an'  I  nibbled." 

The  twins  groaned  in  concert. 

"  But  the  good  Lard,  Davy,"  the  skipper  went  on, 
"  had  sent  a  switch  o'  wind  from  the  sou'west.  So 
they  was  a  bit  o'  lop  on  the  sea,  an'  'twas  t'  that  I 
turned,  when  the  case  got  desperate.  An'  desperate 
it  soon  got,  lad.  Ah,  indeed  !  'long  about  Herring 
Head  it  got  fair  desperate.  '  Skipper  Thomas,'  says 
she,  '  we're  gettin'  old,  you  an*  me/  says  she.  '  Sure, 
mum,'  says  I,  '  not  you,  mum  !  I'll  never  give  in  t' 
that,'  says  I." 

Our  faces  fell. 

"  'Twas  what  I  done,"  the  skipper  persisted,  with 
an  air  of  guilt  and  remorse.  "  I  just/f/^like  doin'  it, 
an'  so  I  done  it.  '  I'll  never  give  in  to  it,  mum,'  says 
I, '  that  you  re  gettin'  old.' " 


A   WRECK  on   The   THIRTY  DEYILS      95 

I  groaned  with  the  twins — and  Skipper  Tommy 
made  a  dismal  quartette  of  it — and  the  wind,  rising 
sharply  at  that  moment,  contributed  a  chorus  of 
heartrending  noises. 

"  Ay,"  the  skipper  continued,  "  'twas  a  sad  mis 
take.  'Twas  floutin'  Providence  t'  say  a  word  like 
that  to  a  woman  like  she.  But  I  just  felt  like  it. 
Then,  '  Oh,  dear/  says  she, '  'tis  barb'rous  lonely  t' 
Wolf  Cove,'  says  she.  '  'Tis  too  bad,  mum/  says  I. 
An'  I  throwed  the  bow  o'  the  punt  plump  into  a 
wave,  Davy,  lad,  an'  shipped  a  bucket  o'  water. 
'  An'/  says  she,  '  it  must  be  lonely  for  you,  Skip 
per  Thomas/  says  she,  '  livin'  there  at  the  Rat 
Hole.' " 

Skipper  Tommy  paused  to  sigh  and  tweak  his 
nose ;  and  he  tweaked  so  often  and  sighed  so  long 
that  I  lost  patience. 

"  An'  what  did  you  do  then  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  Took  in  more  water,  Davy,"  he  groaned,  "  for 
they  wasn't  nothin'  else  I  could  think  of.  '  An'/ 
says  she, '  is  it  not  lonely,  Skipper  Thomas/  says  she, 
'  at  the  Rat  Hole  ? '  '  No,  mum/  says  I,  takin' 
aboard  another  bucket  or  two,  '  for  I've  the  twins/ 
says  I.  With  that  she  put  her  kerchief  to  her  eyes, 
Davy,  an'  begun  t'  sniffle.  An' t'  relieve  me  feelin's, 
lad,  for  I  was  drove  desperate,  I  just  had  t'  let  the 
top  of  a  wave  fall  over  the  bow  :  which  I  done,  Davy, 


96        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

an'  may  the  Lard  forgive  me !  An'  I'm  not  denyin' 
that  'twas  a  sizable  wave  she  took." 

He  stared  despondently  at  the  floor. 

"  She  gathered  up  her  skirts,"  he  went  on.  "  An', 
'  Ah,  Skipper  Thomas,'  says  she,  '  twins,'  says  she, '  is 
nothin'.  Sure,'  says  she, '  twins  is  no  good  on  a  cold 
winter's  night.'  I'm  not  denyin',  Davy,"  said  the 
skipper,  solemnly,  looking  me  straight  in  the  eye, 
"  that  she  scared  me  with  that.  I'm  not  denyin'  that 
me  hand  slipped.  I'm  not  denyin'  that  I  put  the 
tiller  over  a  wee  bit  too  far — maybe  a  foot — maybe  a 
foot  an'  a  half,  in  the  excitement  o'  the  moment — I 
isn't  quite  sure.  No,  no  !  I'm  far,  lad,  from  denyin' 
that  I  near  swamped  the  boat.  '  Tis  gettin'  rough,' 
says  she.  '  Ay,'  says  I, '  an'  we'll  be  gettin'  along  a 
deal  better,  mum,'  says  I, '  if  you  bail.'  So  I  kep' 
her  bailin',  Davy,"  the  skipper  concluded,  with  a 
long  sigh  and  a  sad  wag  of  the  head,  "  from 
Herring  Head  t'  Wolf  Cove.  An',  well,  lad,  she 
didn't  quite  cotch  me,  for  she  hadn't  no  time 
t'  waste,  but,  as  I  was  sayin',  she  cast  a 
hook." 

"  You're  well  rid  o'  she,"  said  I. 

Timmie  rose  to  look  out  of  the  window.  "  Hear 
the  wind  !  "  said  he,  turning  in  awe,  while  the  cottage 
trembled  under  the  rush  of  a  gust.  "  My  !  but  'twill 
blow,  the  night !  " 


A   WRECK  on   The  THIRTY  DEI/ILS      97 

"  Ah,  Timmie,"  sighed  the  skipper,"  what's  a  gale 
o'  wind  t'  the  snares  o'  women  !  " 

"  Women  !  "  cried  I.  "  Sure,  she'll  trouble  you 
no  more.  You're  well  rid  o'  she." 

"  But  I  isn't  rid  o'  she,  Davy,"  he  groaned,  "  an' 
that's  what's  troublin'  the  twins  an'  me.  I  isn't  rid  o' 
she,  for  I've  heared  tell  she've  some  1'arnin'  an'  can 
write  a  letter." 

"  Write  !  "  cried  I.     "  She  won't  write." 

"  Ah,  Davy,"  sighed  the  skipper,  his  head  falling 
over  his  breast,  "  you've  no  knowledge  o'  women. 
They  never  gives  in,  lad,  that  they're  beat.  They 
never  knows  they're  beat.  An'  that  one,  lad, 
wouldn't  know  it  if  she  was  told  !  " 

"  Leave  her  write  so  much  as  she  wants,"  said  I. 
"  Twill  do  you  no  harm." 

"  No  harm  ?  "  said  he,  looking  up.  "  No  harm  in 
writin'  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I.     "  Sure,  you  can't  read !  " 

The  twins  leaped  from  the  corner-seat  and  emitted 
a  shrill  and  joyful  whoop.  Skipper  Tommy  threw 
back  his  head,  opened  his  great  mouth  in  silent 
laughter,  and  slapped  his  thigh  with  such  violence 
that  the  noise  was  like  a  pistol  shot. 

'•'  No  more  I  can,"  he  roared,  "  an'  I'm  too  old  t' 
1'arn ! " 

Laughter — a  fit  of  it — seized  him.     It  exploded 


93        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

like  a  thunder-clap,  and  continued,  uproariously,  in 
terrupted  by  gasps,  when  he  lost  his  breath,  and  by 
groans,  when  a  stitch  made  him  wince.  There  was 
no  resisting  it.  The  twins  doubled  up  in  the  corner- 
seat,  miserably  screaming,  their  heels  waving  in  the 
air ;  and  Davy  Roth  collapsed  on  the  floor,  gripping 
his  sides,  his  eyes  staring,  his  mouth  wide  open, 
venting  his  mirth,  the  while,  in  painful  shrieks. 
Skipper  Tommy  was  himself  again — freed  o'  the  nets 
o'  women — restored  to  us  and  to  his  own  good 
humour — once  again  boon  comrade  of  the  twins  and 
me  !  He  jumped  from  his  chair  ;  and  with  a  "  Tra- 
la-la  !  "  and  a  merry  "  Hi-tum-ti-iddle-dee-um  !  "  he 
fell  into  a  fantastic  dance,  thumping  the  boards  with 
his  stockinged  feet,  advancing  and  retreating  with  a 
flourish,  bowing  and  balancing  to  an  imaginary  part 
ner,  all  in  a  fashion  so  excruciatingly  exaggerated 
that  the  twins  screamed,  "  Don't,  father  !  "  and  Davy 
Roth  moaned,  "  Oh,  stop,  zur,  please,  zur  !  "  while 
the  crimson,  perspiring,  light-footed,  ridiculously  bow- 
legged  old  fellow  still  went  cavorting  over  the  kitchen 
floor. 

But  I  was  a  child — only  a  child — living  in  the 
shadow  of  some  great  sorrow,  which,  though  I  did 
not  know  it,  had  pressed  close  upon  us.  There 
flashed  before  me  a  vision  of  my  mother  lying  wan 


A   WRECK  on   The   THIRTY  DEVILS     99 

and  white  on  the  pillows.  And  I  turned  on  my  face 
and  began  to  cry. 

"  Davy,  lad ! "  said  the  skipper,  tenderly,  seeking 
to  lift  my  head.  "  Hush,  lad  !  Don't  cry  ! " 

But  I  sobbed  the  harder. 

"  Ah,  Davy,"  the  twins  pleaded,  "  stop  cryin' !  Do, 
now! " 

Skipper  Tommy  took  me  on  his  knee ;  and  I  hid 
my  face  on  his  breast,  and  lay  sobbing  hopelessly, 
while  he  sought  to  sooth  me  with  many  a  pat  and 
"  Hush  !  "  and  "  Never  mind  ! " 

"  I'm  wantin'  t'  go  home,"  I  moaned. 

He  gathered  me  closer  in  his  arms.  "  Do  you  stay 
your  grief,  Davy,"  he  whispered,  "  afore  you  goes." 

"  I'm  wantin'  t'  go  home,"  I  sobbed,  "  t'  my 
mother !  " 

Timmie  and  Jacky  came  near,  and  the  one  patted 
my  hand,  and  the  other  put  an  arm  around  me. 

"  Sure,  the  twins  '11  take  you  home,  Davy,"  said 
the  skipper,  softly,  "  when  you  stops  cryin'.  Hush, 
lad !  Hush,  now !  " 

They  were  tender  with  me,  and  I  was  comforted ; 
my  sobs  soon  ceased,  but  still  I  kept  my  head  against 
the  skipper's  breast.  And  while  there  I  lay,  there 
came  from  the  sea — from  the  southwest  in  a  lull  of 
the  wind — breaking  into  the  tender  silence — the  blast 
of  a  steam  whistle,  deep,  full-throated,  prolonged. 


ioo      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Hist !  "  whispered  Jacky.    "  Does  you  not  hear  ?  " 

Skipper  Tommy  stood  me  on  my  feet,  and  himself 
slowly  rose,  listening  intently. 

"  Lads,"  he  asked,  his  voice  shaking,  "  was  it  the 
mail-boat  ?  " 

"  No,  zur ! "  the  twins  gasped. 

"  Is  you  sure  ?  " 

"  'Tis  not  the  way  she  blows,  zur ! " 

"  Tis  surely  not  she,"  the  skipper  mused.  "  In  the 
sou'west  she'd  be  out  of  her  course.  Hark  ! " 

Once  more  the  long,  hoarse  roar  broke  the  silence, 
but  now  rising  again  and  again,  agonized,  like  a  cry 
for  help. 

"  Dear  Lard ! "  skipper  Tommy  cried,  putting  his 
hands  to  his  face.  "  'Tis  a  big  steamer  on  the  Thirty 
Black  Devils ! " 

"  A  wreck  !  "  shouted  Jacky,  leaping  for  his  jacket. 
"  A  wreck  !  A  wreck  !  " 

Distraction  seized  the  skipper.  "  'Tis  a  wreck  ! " 
he  roared.  "  My  boots,  lads  !  Wreck  !  Wreck !  " 

We  lads  went  mad.  No  steamer  had  been  wrecked 
on  the  coast  in  our  time.  There  were  deeds  to  do ! 
There  was  salvage  to  win  ! 

"  Wreck  ! "  we  screamed.  "  Wreck  ?  Wreck ! 
Wreck!" 

Then  out  we  four  ran.  It  was  after  dark.  The 
vault  was  black.  But  the  wind  had  turned  the  fog  to 


A   WRECK  on   The   THIRTY  DEVILS    101 

thin  mist.  The  surrounding  hills  stood  disclosed — 
solid  shadows  in  the  night.  Half  a  gale  was  blowing 
from  the  sea :  it  broke  over  the  hills  ;  it  swooped  from 
the  inky  sky ;  it  swept  past  in  long,  clinging  gusts. 
We  breasted  it  heads  down.  The  twins  raised  the 
alarm.  Wreck !  Wreck !  Folk  joined  us  as  we 
ran.  They  were  in  anxious  haste  to  save  life. 
They  were  gleeful  with  the  hope  of  salvage.  What 
the  sea  casts  up  the  Lord  provides !  Wreck ! 
Wreck  !  Far-off  cries  answered  us.  The  cottage 
windows  were  aglow.  Lanterns  danced  over  the  flakes. 
Lights  moved  over  the  harbour  water.  Wreck ! 
Wreck  !  On  we  stumbled.  Our  feet  struck  the  road 
with  thud  and  scrape.  Our  lanterns  clattered  and 
buzzed  and  fluttered.  Wreck  !  Wreck  !  We  plunged 
down  the  last  hill  and  came  gasping  to  my  father's  wharf. 

Most  of  our  folk  were  already  vigorously  underway 
towards  South  Tickle. 

"  Lives  afore  salvage,  lads  ! "  my  father  shouted 
from  his  punt. 

My  sister  caught  my  arm. 

"  'Tis  a  big  steamer,  Bessie  ! "  I  cried,  turning. 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "  But  do  you  go 
stay  with  mother,  Davy.  She've  sent  me  t'  Tom 
Turr's  by  the  path.  They're  t'  fetch  the  wrecked 
folk  there.  Make  haste,  lad  !  She've  been  left  alone." 

I  ran  up  the  path  to  our  house. 


THE   FLIGHT 

IT  was  late  in  the  night.  My  mother  and  I  sat 
alone  in  her  dim-lit  room.  We  were  waiting — 
both  waiting.  And  I  was  waiting  for  the  lights 
of  the  returning  punts. 

"  Davy ! "  my  mother  called.  "  You  are  still 
there?  " 

"  Ay,  mother,"  I  answered.  "  I'm  still  sittin'  by 
the  window,  lookin'  out." 

"  I  am  glad,  dear,"  she  sighed,  "  that  you  are  here 
— with  me — to-night." 

She  craved  love,  my  love  ;  and  my  heart  responded, 
as  the  knowing  hearts  of  children  will. 

"  Ah,  mother,"  I  said,  "  'tis  lovely  t'  be  sittin' 
here — all  alone  with  you  ! " 

"  Don't,  Davy ! "  she  cried,  catching  her  breath. 
"  I'm  not  able  to  bear  the  joy  of  it.  My  heart  — 

"  'Tis  so,"  I  persisted,  "  'cause  I  loves  you  so !  " 

"  But,  oh,  I'm  glad,  Davy  !  "  she  whispered.  "  I'm 
glad  you  love  your  mother.  And  I'm  glad,"  she 
added,  softly,  "  that  you've  told  me  so — to-night." 

By  and  by  I  grew  drowsy.     My  eyes  would  not 


THE  FLIGHT  103 

stay  open.  And  I  fell  asleep  with  my  head  on  the 
window-sill.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  slept. 

"  Davy !  "  my  mother  called. 

"  Ay  ? "  I  answered,  waking.  "  Sure,  I  been 
asleep  ! " 

"  But  you're  not  wanting  to  go  to  bed  ?  "  she  asked, 
anxiously.  "  You'll  not  leave  your  mother  all  alone, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  mama  ! " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Do  not  leave  your  mother, 
now. " 

Again  I  fell  asleep.  It  may  be  that  I  wasted  a 
long,  long  time  in  sleep. 

"  Davy !  "  she  called. 

I  answered.  And,  "  I  cannot  stay  awake,"  I  said. 
"  Sure,  'tis  quite  past  me  t'  do  it,  for  I'm  so  wonder 
ful  sleepy." 

"  Come  closer,"  she  said.  "  Tired  lad  !  "  she  went 
on,  when  she  had  my  hand  in  hers.  "  Sleepy  head  ! 
Lie  down  beside  me,  dear,  and  go  to  sleep.  I'm  not 
afraid — not  afraid,  at  all — to  be  left  alone.  Oh, 
you're  so  tired,  little  lad  !  Lie  down  and  sleep.  For 
your  mother  is  very  brave — to-night.  And  tell  your 
father,  Davy — when  he  comes  and  wakes  you — and 
tell  your  sister,  too — that  your  mother  was  happy, 
oh,  very  happy  and  brave,  when  .  .  ." 

"  When  you  fell  asleep  ?  "  I  asked. 


104      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  so  low  I  could  but 
hear  it.  "  That  I  was  happy  when — I  fell  asleep." 

I  pulled  off  my  jacket. 

"  I'm  wanting  to  hear  you  say  your  prayers,  Davy," 
she  said,  "  before  you  go  to  sleep.  I'm  wanting 
once  again — just  once  again — to  hear  you  say  your 
prayers." 

I  knelt  beside  the  bed. 

"  My  little  son  !  "  my  mother  said.  "  My — little — 
son ! " 

"  My  mother ! "  I  responded,  looking  up. 

She  lifted  my  right  hand.  "  Dear  Jesus,  lover  of 
children,"  she  prayed,  "  take,  oh,  take  this  little 
hand ! " 

And  I  began  to  say  my  prayers,  while  my  moth 
er's  fingers  wandered  tenderly  through  my  curls,  but 
I  was  a  tired  child,  and  fell  asleep  as  I  prayed.  And 
when  I  awoke,  my  mother's  hand  lay  still  and 
strangely  heavy  on  my  head. 

Then  the  child  that  was  I  knew  that  his  mother 
was  dead.  He  leaped  from  his  knees  with  a  broken 
cry,  and  stood  expectant,  but  yet  in  awe,  searching 
the  dim,  breathless  room  for  a  beatified  figure, 
white-robed,  winged,  radiant,  like  the  angel  of  the 
picture  by  his  bed,  for  he  believed  that  souls  thus 
took  their  flight ;  but  he  saw  only  shadows. 


THE  FLIGHT  105 

"  Mama,"  he  whispered,  "  where  is  you  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  child's  question.  The 
risen  wind  blew  wildly  in  the  black  night  without. 
But  it  was  still  dim  and  breathless  in  the  room. 

"  Mama,"  said  the  child,  "  is  your  soul  hidin'  from 
me?" 

Still  the  child  was  left  unanswered.  He  waited, 
listening — but  was  not  answered. 

"  Don't  hide,"  he  pleaded.  "  Oh,  don't  hide,  for 
I'm  not  wantin'  to  play  !  Oh,  mother,  I'm  wantin' 
you  sore !  " 

And,  now,  he  knew  that  she  would  come,  for,  "  I'm 
wantin'  you,  mother ! "  he  had  been  used  to  crying 
in  the  night,  and  she  had  never  failed  to  answer,  but 
had  come  swiftly  and  with  comfort.  He  waited  for 
a  voice  and  for  a  vision,  surely  expecting  them  in 
answer  to  his  cry ;  but  he  saw  only  shadows,  heard 
only  the  scream  of  the  wind,  and  a  sudden,  angry 
patter  of  rain  on  the  roof.  Then  the  child  that  was 
I  fancied  that  his  mother's  soul  had  fled  while  yet  he 
slept,  and,  being  persuaded  that  its  course  was  heaven 
ward,  ran  out,  seeking  it.  And  he  forgets  what  then 
he  did,  save  that  he  climbed  the  broken  cliff  behind 
the  house,  crying,  "  Wait,  oh,  wait ! "  and  that  he 
came,  at  last,  to  the  summit  of  the  Watchman, 
where  there  was  a  tumult  of  wind  and  rain. 

"  Mama  !  "  he  screamed,  lifting  his  hands  in  appeal 


io6        DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

to  the  wide,  black  sky.  "  You  forgot  t'  kiss  me 
good-bye  !  Oh,  come  back  !  " 

He  flung  himself  prone  on  the  naked  rock,  for  the 
soul  of  his  mother  did  not  come,  though  pa 
tiently  he  had  watched  for  the  glory  of  its  returning 
flight. 

"  She've  forgot  me  !  "  he  moaned.  "  Oh,  she've 
forgot  me  ! " 

When,  trembling  and  bedraggled,  I  came  again  to 
the  room  where  my  mother's  body  lay,  my  sister  was 
kneeling  by  the  bed,  and  my  father  was  in  converse 
with  a  stranger,  who  was  not  like  the  men  of  our 
coast.  "  Not  necessarily  mortal,"  this  man  was  say 
ing.  "  An  operation — just  a  simple  operation — 
easily  performed  with  what  you  have  at  hand — 
would  have  saved  the  woman." 

"  Saved  her,  Doctor  ?  "  said  my  father  passionately. 
"  Is  you  sayin'  that  ?  " 

"  I  have  said  so.  It  would  have  saved  her.  Had 
we  been  wrecked  five  days  ago  she  would  have  been 
alive." 

A  torrent  of  rain  beat  on  the  house. 

"  Alive  ?  "  my  father  muttered,  staring  at  the  floor. 
"  She  would  have  been  alive  !  " 

The  stranger  looked  upon  my  father  in  pity. 
"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  my  man,"  he  said. 


THE  FLIGHT  107 

"  'Tis  strange,"  my  father  muttered,  still  staring  at 
the  floor.  "  'Tis  strange — how  things — comes  about. 
Five  days — just  five  .  .  ." 

He  muttered  on. 

"  Yes,"  the  stranger  broke  in,  stirring  nervously. 
"  Had  I  come  but  five  days  ago." 

A  sudden  rising  of  the  gale — the  breaking  of  its 
fury — filled  the  room  with  a  dreadful  confusion. 

"  Indeed — I'm — sorry — very  sorry,"  the  stranger 
stammered ;  his  lips  were  drawn ;  in  his  eyes  was  the 
flare  of  some  tragedy  of  feeling. 

My  father  did  not  move — but  continued  vacantly 
to  stare  at  the  floor. 

"  Really — you  know — I  am !  " 

"  Is  you  ? "  then  my  father  asked,  looking  up. 
"  Is  you  sorry  for  me  an'  Davy  an'  the  lass  ?  "  The 
stranger  dared  not  meet  my  father's  eyes.  "  An'  you 
could  have  saved  her,"  my  father  went  on.  "  You 
could  have  saved  her !  She  didn't  have  t'  go.  She 
died — for  want  o'  you  !  God  Almighty,"  he  cried, 
raising  his  clenched  hand,  "  this  man  come  too  late 
God  Almighty — does  you  hear  me,  God  Al 
mighty? — the  man  you  sent  come  too  late!  An' 
you,"  he  flashed,  turning  on  the  stranger,  "  could  have 
saved  her  ?  Oh,  my  dear  lass !  An'  she  would 
have  been  here  the  night  ?  Here  like  she  used  t'  be  ? 
Here  in  her  dear  body  ?  Here  ?  "  he  cried,  striking 


io8      DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

his  breast.  "  She  would  have  lain  here  the  night  had 
you  come  afore  ?  Oh,  why  didn't  you  come  ?  "  he 
moaned.  "  You  hold  life  an'  death  in  your  hands, 
zur,  t'  give  or  withhold.  Why  didn't  you  come — t' 
give  the  gift  o'  life  t'  she  ?  " 

The  stranger  shrank  away.  "  Stop  !  "  he  cried,  in 
agony.  "  How  was  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  Hush,  father  ! "  my  sister  pleaded. 

In  a  flash  of  passion  my  father  advanced  upon  the 
man.  "  How  was  you  t'  know  ? "  he  burst  out. 
"  Where  you  been  ?  What  you  been  doin'  ?  Does 
you  hear  me?"  he  demanded,  his  voice  rising  with 
the  noise  of  wind  and  rain.  "  What  you  been 
doin'  ?  " 

"  Stop  it,  man  !  You  touch  me  to  the  quick  !  You 
don't  know — you  don't  know  — 

"  What  you  been  doin'  ?  We're  dyin'  here  for 
want  o'  such  as  you.  What  you  been  doin'  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer.  The  stranger  had  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  O  God,"  my  father  cried,  again  appealing  to 
Heaven,  "  judge  this  man  !  " 

"  Stop !  " 

It  was  a  bitter  cry — the  agony  sounding  clear  and 
poignant  above  the  manifold  voices  of  the  storm — 
but  it  won  no  heed. 

"  O  God,  judge  this  man  ! " 


THE  FLIGHT  109 

"  Will  no  one  stop  him  ?  "  the  stranger  moaned. 
"  For  God's  sake — stop  him — some  one  ! " 
"  O  God,  judge  this  man  !  " 
The  stranger  fled.     .     .     . 

"Oh,  my  dear  wife!"  my  father  sobbed,  at  last, 
sinking  into  the  great  armchair,  wherein  the  mail- 
boat  doctor  had  not  sat.  "  Oh,  my  dear  wife  !  " 

"  Father ! "  my  dear  sister  whispered,  flinging  her 
soft  arms  about  his  neck  and  pressing  her  cheek 
against  his  brow.  "  Dear  father  !  " 

And  while  the  great  gale  raged,  she  sought  to 
comfort  my  father  and  me,  but  could  not. 


XI 

The    WOMEN    at    The    GATE 

BY  and   by  my  sister  put  me  in  dry  clothes, 
and  bidding  me  be  a  good  lad,  sat  me  in  the 
best  room  below,  where  the  maids  had  laid  a 
fire.    And  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy,  finding  me  there 
disconsolate,  took  me  to  the  seaward  hills  to  watch 
the  break  of  day  :  for  the  rain  had  ceased,  the  wind 
fallen  away ;  and  the  gray  light  of  dawn  was  in  the 
eastern  sky. 

"  I'm  wantin'  t'  tell  you,  Davy,"  he  said,  in  a  con 
fidential  way,  as  we  trudged  along,  "  about  the  gate 
o'  heaven." 

I  took  his  hand. 

44  An'  I  been  wantin'  t'  tell  you,"  he  added,  giving 
his  nose  a  little  tweak,  "  for  a  long,  long  time." 

44  Is  you  ?  " 

"  Ay,  lad ;  an'  about  the  women  at  the  gate." 

44  Women,  Skipper  Tommy  ? "  said  I,  puzzled. 
44  An',  pray,  who  is  they?  " 

"  Mothers,"  he  answered.     "  Just  mothers." 

44  What  they  doin'  at  the  gate  ?  No,  no  !  They're 
not  there.  Sure,  they're  playin'  harps  at  the  foot 
o'  the  throne." 

no 


I II 

"  No,"  said  he,  positively  ;  "  they're  at  the  gate." 

"  What  they  doin'  there  ?  " 

«  Waitin1." 

We  were  now  come  to  the  crest  of  a  hill ;  and  the 
sea  was  spread  before  us — breaking  angrily  under 
the  low,  black  sky. 

"  What's  they  waitin'  for  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Davy,  lad,"  he  answered,  impressively,  "  they're 
waitin'  for  them  they  bore.  That's  what  they're 
waitin'  for." 

"  For  their  sons  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  an'  for  their  daughters,  too." 

While  I  watched  the  big  seas  break  on  the  rocks 
below — and  the  clouds  drift  up  from  the  edge  of  the 
world — I  pondered  upon  this  strange  teaching.  My 
mother  had  never  told  me  of  the  women  waiting  at 
the  gate. 

"  Ah,  but,"  I  said,  at  last,  "  I'm  thinkin'  God 
would  never  allow  it  t'  go  on.  He'd  want  un  all  t' 
sing  His  praises.  Sure,  they'd  just  be  wastin'  His 
time — waitin'  there  at  the  gate." 

Skipper  Tommy  shook  his  head — and  smiled,  and 
softly  patted  my  shoulder. 

"  An'  He'd  gather  un  there,  at  the  foot  o'  the 
throne,"  I  went  on,  "  an'  tell  un  t'  waste  no  more, 
but  strike  up  their  golden  harps." 

"  No,  no  !  " 


112      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  They  wouldn't  go." 

"  But  He'd  make  un  go." 

"  He  couldn't." 

"  Not  make  un  !  "  I  cried,  amazed. 

"  Look  you,  lad,"  he  explained,  in  a  sage  whisper, 
"  they're  all  mothers,  an'  they'd  be  wantiri  t'  stay 
where  they  was,  an',  ecod !  they'd  find  a  way." 

"  Ah,  well,"  I  sighed,  "  'tis  wearisome  work — this 
waitin'." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  not,"  he  answered,  soberly,  speaking 
rather  to  himself  than  to  me.  "  'Tis  not  wearisome 
for  such  as  know  the  good  Lard's  plan." 

"  Tis  wonderful  hard,"  said  I,  "  on  the  mothers  o' 
wicked  sons." 

The  old  man  smiled.  "  Who  knows,"  he  asked, 
"  that  'tis  wonderful  hard  on  they  ?  " 

"  But  then,"  I  mused,  "  the  Lord  would  find  a  way 
t'  comfort  the  mother  o'  such." 

"Oh,  ay!" 

"  I'm  thinkin',  maybe,"  I  went  on,  "  that  He'd 
send  an  angel  t'  tell  her  they  wasn't  worth  the  waitin' 
for.  '  Mind  un  not/  He'd  say.  '  They're  nothin' 
but  bad,  wicked  boys.  Leave  un  go  t'  hell  an' 
burn.' " 

"An',  now,  what,  lad,"  he  inquired  with  deep  in 
terest,  "  is  you  thinkin'  the  mother  would  do  ?  " 


The  WOMEN  at  The  GATE  113 

"  She'd  take  the  angel's  hand,"  I  sighed. 

"Ay?" 

"  An'  go  up  t'  the  throne — forgettin'  them  she'd 
left." 

"An'  then?  " 

"  She'd  praise  the  Lard,"  I  sobbed. 

"  Never  !  "  the  skipper  cried. 

I  looked  hopefully  in  his  face. 

"  Never  !  "  he  repeated.  "  '  Lard,'  she'd  say,  '  I 
loves  un  all  the  more  for  their  sins.  Leave  me 
wait — oh,  leave  me  wait — here  at  the  gate.  Maybe 
— sometime — they'll  come  ! '  ' 

"  But  some,"  said  I,  in  awe,  "  would  wait  forever — 
an'  ever — an'  ever " 

"  Not  one  !  " 

"  Not  one  ?  " 

"  Not  one  !  Twould  break  the  dear  Lard's  heart 
t'  see  un  waitin'  there." 

I  looked  away  to  the  furthest  clouds,  fast  chang 
ing,  now,  from  gray  to  silver ;  and  for  a  long  time  I 
watched  them  thin  and  brighten. 

"  Skipper  Tommy,"  I  asked,  at  last, "  is  my  mother 
at  the  gate  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  he  confidently. 

"  Waitin1  ?" 

"  Ay." 

"  An'  for  me  ?  " 


H4      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

He  gave  me  an  odd  look — searching  my  very 
soul  with  his  mild  old  eyes.  "  Doesn't  you  think 
she  is  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  knows  it !  "  I  cried. 

Far  off,  at  the  horizon,  the  sky  broke — and  the 
rift  broadened — and  the  clouds  lifted — and  the  east 
flamed  with  colour — and  all  at  once  the  rosy,  hopeful 
light  of  dawn  flushed  the  frowning  sea. 

"  Look  !  "  the  skipper  whispered. 

"  Ay,"  said  I,  "  the  day  is  broke." 

"  A  new  day  !  "  said  he. 


XII 
DOCTOR    AND    I 

HOW  the  St.  Lawrence  came  to  stray  from 
her  course  down  the  Strait  I  do  not  remem 
ber.  As  concerns  such  trivial  things,  the 
days  that  followed  my  mother's  death  are  all  misty 
in  my  mind ;  but  I  do  recall  (for  when  Skipper 
Tommy  had  made  my  mother's  coffin  he  took  me  to 
the  heads  of  Good  Promise  to  see  the  sight)  that  the 
big  seas  of  that  day  pounded  the  vessel  to  a  shape 
less  wreck  on  the  jagged  rocks  of  the  Reef  of  the 
Thirty  Black  Devils :  where  she  lay  desolate  for 
many  a  day  thereafter.  But  the  sea  was  not  quick 
enough  to  balk  our  folk  of  their  salvage  :  all  day 
long — even  while  the  ship  was  going  to  pieces — they 
swarmed  upon  her;  and  they  loaded  their  punts 
again  and  again,  fearlessly  boarding,  and  with  infinite 
patience  and  courage  managed  to  get  their  heaven 
sent  plunder  ashore.  'Twas  diverting  to  watch 
them ;  and  when  the  twins,  who  had  been  among 
the  most  active  at  the  wreck,  came  at  last  to  their 
father,  I  laughed  to  know  that,  as  Timmie  said,  they 

"5 


n6      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  'The  LABRADOR 

had  food  enough  ashore  to  keep  the  wrinkles  out  of 
their  stomachs  all  winter. 


Our  harbour  was  for  many  days  crowded  with 
wrecked  folk — strange  of  speech,  of  dress,  of 
manners — who  went  about  in  flocks,  prying  into 
our  innermost  concerns,  so  that  we  were  soon 
wearied  of  their  perverse  and  insatiable  curiosity, 
though  we  did  not  let  them  know  it.  They  were 
sorry  for  my  father  and  sister  and  me,  I  know,  for, 
one  and  all,  when  they  came  to  see  my  mother  lying 
dead,  they  said  they  were.  And  they  stood  soberly 
by  her  shallow  grave,  when  we  laid  her  dear  body 
away,  and  they  wept  when  old  Tom  Tot  spoke  of 
the  dust  and  ashes,  which  we  are,  and  the  stony 
earth  rattled  hopelessly  on  the  coffin.  Doubtless 
they  were  well-intentioned  towards  us  all,  and  to 
wards  me,  a  motherless  lad,  more  than  any  other, 
and  doubtless  they  should  be  forgiven  much,  for  they 
were  but  ignorant  folk,  from  strange  parts  of  the 
world ;  but  I  took  it  hard  that  they  should  laugh  on 
the  roads,  as  though  no  great  thing  had  happened, 
and  when,  at  last,  the  women  folk  took  to  praising 
my  hair  and  eyes,  as  my  mother  used  to  do,  and, 
moreover,  to  kissing  me  in  public  places,  which 
had  been  my  mother's  privilege,  I  was  speedily 


^DOCTOR  AND  1  117 

scandalized  and  fled  their  proximity  with  great 
cunning  and  agility. 

My  father,  however,  sought  them  out,  at  all  times 
and  places,  that  he  might  tell  them  the  tragic 
circumstances  of  my  mother's  death,  and  seemed  not 
to  remember  that  he  had  told  them  all  before. 

"  But  five  days ! "  he  would  whisper,  excitedly, 
when  he  had  buttonholed  a  stranger  in  the  shop. 
"  Eh,  man  ?  Have  you  heared  tell  o'  my  poor 
wife?" 

"  Five  days  ?  " 

"  Ay ;  had  you  folk  been  wrecked  five  days  afore 
— just  five,  mark  you — she  would  have  been  alive, 
the  day." 

"  How  sad  !  " 

"  Five  days  ! "  my  father  would  suddenly  cry, 
wringing  his  hands.  "  My  God  !  Only  five  days  !  " 

A  new  expression  of  sympathy— and  a  glance  of 
the  sharpest  suspicion — would  escape  the  stranger. 

"  Five  days  !  "  my  father  would  repeat,  as  though 
communicating  some  fact  which  made  him  peculiarly 
important  to  all  the  world.  "  That,  now,"  with  a 
knowing  glance,  "  is  what  I  calls  wonderful  queer." 

My  father  was  not  the  same  as  he  had  been.  He 
was  like  a  man  become  a  child  again — interested  in 
little  things,  dreaming  much,  wondering  more :  con 
ceiving  himself,  like  a  child,  an  object  of  deepest 


n8      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

interest  to  us  all.  No  longer,  now,  did  he  command 
us,  but,  rather,  sought  to  know  from  my  sister  (to 
whom  he  constantly  turned)  what  he  should  do  from 
hour  to  hour;  and  I  thought  it  strange  that  he 
should  do  our  bidding  as  though  he  had  never  been 
used  to  bidding  us.  But  so  it  was  ;  and,  moreover 
(which  I  thought  a  great  pity),  he  forgot  that  he  was 
to  kill  the  mail-boat  doctor  when  the  steamer  put 
into  our  harbour  on  the  southward  trip — a  purpose 
from  which,  a  week  before,  Skipper  Tommy  Love- 
joy  could  not  dissuade  him,  though  he  tried  for  hours 
together.  Ay,  with  his  bare  hands,  my  father  was 
to  have  killed  that  man — to  have  wrung  his  neck 
and  flung  him  overboard — but  now  there  was  no 
word  of  the  deed :  my  father  but  puttered  about, 
mildly  muttering  that  the  great  ship  had  been 
wrecked  five  days  too  late. 

I  have  said  that  my  father  loved  my  mother ;  it 
may  be  that  he  loved  her  overmuch — and,  perhaps, 
that  accounts  for  what  came  upon  him  when  he  lost 
her.  I  have  since  thought  it  sad  that  our  hearts 
may  contain  a  love  so  great  that  all  the  world  seems 
empty  when  chance  plucks  it  out ;  but  the  thought, 
no  doubt,  is  not  a  wise  one. 

The  doctor  whom  I  had  found  with  my  father  in 
my  mother's  room  was  not  among  the  folk  who  bab- 


DOCTOR  AND  I  119 

bled  on  the  roads  and  came  prying  into  the  stages 
with  tiresome  exclamations  of  "  Really  !  "  and  "  How 
in-tres-ting !  "  He  kept  aloof  from  them  and  from 
us  all.  All  day  long  he  wandered  on  the  heads  and 
hills  of  our  harbour — a  melancholy  figure,  conspicu 
ous  against  the  blue  sky  of  those  days  :  far  off,  soli 
tary,  bowed.  Sometimes  he  sat  for  hours  on  the 
Watchman,  staring  out  to  sea,  so  still  that  it  would 
have  been  small  blame  to  the  gulls  had  they  mistaken 
him  for  a  new  boulder,  mysteriously  come  to  the 
hill ;  sometimes  he  lay  sprawling  on  the  high  point 
of  Skull  Island,  staring  at  the  sky,  lost  to  knowledge 
of  the  world  around  ;  sometimes  he  clambered  down 
the  cliffs  of  Good  Promise  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
stood  staring,  forever  staring,  at  the  breakers  (which 
no  man  should  do).  Often  I  was  not  content  with 
watching  him  from  afar,  but  softly  followed  close,  and 
peered  at  him  from  the  shelter  of  a  boulder  or  peeped 
over  the  shoulder  of  a  hill ;  and  so  sad  did  he  seem 
— so  full  of  sighs  and  melancholy  attitudes — that  in 
variably  I  went  home  pitying :  for  at  that  time  my 
heart  was  tender,  and  the  sight  of  sorrow  hurt  it. 

Once  I  crept  closer  and  closer,  and,  at  last,  taking 
courage  (though  his  clean-shaven  face  and  soft  gray 
hat  abashed  me),  ran  to  him  and  slipped  my  hand  in 
his. 

He  started  ;  then,  perceiving  who  it  was,  he  with- 


130      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

drew  his  hand  with  a  wrench,  and  turned  away: 
which  hurt  me. 

"  You  are  the  son,"  said  he,  "  of  the  woman  who 
died,  are  you  not  ?  " 

I  was  more  abashed  than  ever — and  wished  I  had 
not  been  so  bold. 

"  I'm  Davy  Roth,  zur,"  I  whispered,  for  I  was 
much  afraid.  "  My  mother's  dead  an'  buried,  zur." 

"  I  saw  you,"  said  he,  "  in  the  room — that  night." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then,  "  What's  your 
name,  zur  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  Mine  ?  " 

«  Ay." 

"  Mine,"  said  he,  "  is  Luke " 

He  stopped — and  thoughtfully  frowned.  I 
waited  ;  but  he  said  no  more. 

"  Doctor  Luke  ?  "  I  ventured. 

"  Well,"  he  drawled,  "  that  will  serve." 

Then  I  thought  I  must  tell  him  what  was  in  my 
heart  to  say.  Why  not  ?  The  wish  was  good,  and 
his  soft,  melancholy  voice  irresistibly  appealed  to  my 
raw  and  childish  sympathies. 

"  I  wisht,  zur,"  I  whispered,  looking  down  at  my 
boots,  through  sheer  embarrassment, "  that  you " 

My  tongue  failed  me.  I  was  left  in  a  sad  lurch. 
He  was  not  like  our  folk — not  like  our  folk,  at  all — 
and  I  could  not  freely  speak  my  mind. 


DOCTOR  AND  I  121 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said,  to  encourage  me. 

"  That  you  wasn't  so  sad,"  I  blurted,  with  a  rush, 
looking  swift  and  deep  into  his  gray  eyes. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  he,  taking  my  hand. 

"  I'm  not  wantin'  you  t'  be." 

He  put  his  arm  over  my  shoulder.  "  Why  not  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  Tell  me  why  not,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  corners  of  my  mouth  fell.  It  may  have  been 
in  sympathetic  response  to  the  tremolo  of  feeling  in 
his  voice.  I  was  in  peril  of  unmanly  tears  (as  often 
chanced  in  those  days) — and  only  women,  as  I  knew, 
should  see  lads  weep.  I  hid  my  face  against  him. 

"  Because,  zur,"  I  said,  "  it  makes  me  sad,  too  !  " 

He  sat  down  and  drew  me  to  his  knee.  "  This  is 
very  strange,"  he  said,  "  and  very  kind.  You  would 
not  have  me  sad  ?  "  I  shook  my  head.  "  I  do  not 
understand,"  he  muttered.  "  It  is  very  strange." 
(But  it  was  not  strange  on  our  coast,  where  all  men 
are  neighbours,  and  each  may  without  shame  or  of 
fense  seek  to  comfort  the  other.)  Then  he  had  me 
tell  him  tales  of  our  folk,  to  which  he  listened  with 
interest  so  eager  that  I  quickly  warmed  to  the  di 
version  and  chattered  as  fast  as  my  tongue  would  wag. 
He  laughed  at  me  for  saying  "  nar  "  for  not  (and  the 
like)  and  I  at  him  for  saying  "  cawm  "  for  calm  ;  and 
soon  we  were  very  merry,  and  not  only  merry,  but  as 
intimate  as  friends  of  a  lifetime.  By  and  by  I  took 


122      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

him  to  see  the  Soldier's  Ear,  which  is  an  odd  rock 
near  the  Rat  Hole,  and,  after  that,  to  listen  to  the 
sea  coughing  and  gurgling  at  the  bottom  of  Satan's 
Well.  And  in  all  this  he  forgot  that  he  was  sad — 
and  I  that  my  mother  was  dead. 

"  Will  you  walk  with  me  to-morrow,  Davy  ?  "  he 
asked,  when  I  said  that  I  must  be  off  home. 

"  That  I  will,  zur,"  said  I. 

"  After  breakfast." 

"  Ay,  zur  ;  a  quarter  of  five." 

"  Well,  no,"  he  drawled.     "  Half  after  nine." 

"  Tis  a  sheer  waste  o'  time,"  I  protested.  "  But 
'twill  suit  me,  zur,  an  it  pleases  you.  My  sister  will 
tell  me  the  hour." 

"  Your  sister  ?  "  he  asked,  quickly. 

"  Bessie,"  said  I. 

"  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "  she  was  your  sister.  I  saw 
her  there — that  night.  And  she  is  your  sister  ?  " 

"  You  got  it  right,"  cried  I,  proudly.  "  That's 
my  sister  !  " 

He  slapped  me  on  the  back  (which  shocked  me, 
for  our  folk  are  not  that  playful) ;  and,  laughing 
heartily  as  he  went,  he  took  the  road  to  Tom  Tot's, 
where  he  had  found  food  and  housing  for  a  time.  I 
watched  him  from  the  turn  in  the  road,  as  he  went 
lightly  down  the  slope  towards  South  Tickle — his 
trim-clad,  straight,  graceful  figure,  broad-shouldered, 


DOCTOR  AND  I  123 

clean-cut,  lithe  in  action,  as  compared  with  our 
lumbering  gait;  inefficient,  'tis  true,  but  potentially 
strong.  As  I  walked  home,  I  straightened  my  own 
shoulders,  held  my  head  high,  lifted  my  feet  from  the 
ground,  flung  bold  glances  to  right  and  left,  as  I  had 
seen  him  do  :  for,  even  then,  I  loved  him  very  much. 
All  the  while  I  was  exultantly  conscious  that  a  new 
duty  and  a  new  delight  had  come  to  me  :  some  great 
thing,  given  of  God — a  work  to  do,  a  happiness  to 
cherish.  And  that  night  he  came  and  went  in  my 
dreams — but  glorified  :  his  smile  not  mirthless,  his 
grave,  gray  eyes  not  overcast,  his  face  not  flabby  and 
flushed,  his  voice  not  slow  and  sad,  but  vibrant  with 
fine,  live  purpose.  My  waking  thought  was  the  wish 
that  the  man  of  the  hills  might  be  the  man  of  my 
vision  ;  and  in  my  simple  morning  petition  it  became 
a  prayer. 

"  Dear  mama,"  I  prayed,  "  there's  something  wrong 
along  o'  the  man  who  come  the  night  you  died. 
He've  managed  somehow  t'  get  wonderful  sick.  I'm 
not  knowin'  what  ails  un,  or  where  he  cotched  it ; 
but  I  sees  it  plain  in  his  face :  an'  'tis  a  woeful  sick 
ness.  Do  you  make  haste  t'  the  throne  o'  God, 
please,  mum,  an'  tell  Un  I  been  askin'  you  t'  have 
un  cured.  You'd  want  un  well,  too,  an  you  was 
here ;  an'  the  Lard  '11  surely  listen  t'  you,  an'  take 
your  word  for  't.  Oh,  do  you  pray  the  Lard,  with 


124      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

all   your  might  an'  main,  dear  mama,  t'  heal  that 
man!" 


In  our  land  the  works  of  the  Lord  are  not  ob 
scured  by  what  the  hands  of  men  have  made.  The 
twofold  vision  ranges  free  and  far.  Here  are  no 
brick  walls,  no  unnatural  need  or  circumstance,  no 
confusing  inventions,  no  gasping  haste,  no  specious 
distractions,  no  clamour  of  wheel  and  heartless  voices, 
to  blind  the  soul,  to  pervert  its  pure  desires,  to  deaden 
its  fears,  to  deafen  its  ears  to  the  sweeter  calls — to 
shut  it  in,  to  shrivel  it :  to  sicken  it  in  every  part. 
Rock  and  waste  of  sea  and  the  high  sweep  of  the 
sky — winds  and  rain  and  sunlight  and  flying  clouds 
— great  hills,  mysterious  distances,  flaming  sunsets, 
the  still,  vast  darkness  of  night !  These  are  the 
mighty  works  of  the  Lord,  and  of  none  other — un 
spoiled  and  unobscured.  In  them  He  proclaims 
Himself.  They  who  have  not  known  before  that 
the  heavens  and  the  earth  are  the  handiwork  of  God, 
here  discover  it :  and  perceive  the  Presence  and  the 
Power,  and  are  ashamed  and  overawed.  Thus  our 
land  works  its  marvel  in  the  sensitive  soul.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  in  the  waste  is  sounded  the 
great  keynote  of  life — with  which  true  hearts  ever 
seek  to  vibrate  in  tune. 


XIII 

A    SMILING    FACE 

OCTOR  LUKE,  zur,"  I  said,  as  we  walked 
that  day,  "  I  dreamed  o'  you,  last  night." 
«  Pleasantly,  I  hope  ?  " 

I  sighed. 

"  What,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  did  you  dream  of 
me?" 

'Twas  hard  to  frame  a  reply.  "  I  been  thinkin', 
since,"  I  faltered,  floundering  in  search  of  a  simile, 
"  that  you're  like  a — like  a " 

"  Like  what  ?  "  he  demanded. 

I  did  not  know.  My  eye  sought  everywhere, 
but  found  no  happy  suggestion.  Then,  through  an 
opening  in  the  hills,  I  caught  sight  of  the  melancholy 
wreck  on  the  Reef  of  the  Thirty  Black  Devils. 

"  I  fear  t'  tell,"  said  I. 

He  stopped.  "  But  I  wish  to  know,"  he  persisted. 
"You'll  tell  me,  Davy,  will  you  not?  It  means  so 
much." 

"  Like  a  wrecked  ship,"  said  I. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  starting  from  me. 

At  once  he  sent  me  home ;  nor  would  he  have  me 
I25 


126      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

walk  with  him  that  afternoon,  because,  as  he  said, 
my  sister  would  not  allow  me  to  bear  him  company, 
did  she  know  as  much  as  I  had  in  some  strange  way 
divined. 

Next  day,  armed  with  my  sister's  express  permis 
sion,  I  overcame  his  scruples ;  and  off  we  went  to 
Red  Indian  Cave.  Everywhere,  indeed,  we  went  to 
gether,  while  the  wrecked  folk  waited  the  mail-boat 
to  come — Doctor  Luke  and  I — hand  in  hand — happy 
(for  the  agony  of  my  loss  came  most  in  the  night, 
when  I  lay  wakeful  and  alone  in  my  little  bed)  as 
the  long,  blue  days.  We  roamed  the  hills,  climbed 
the  cliffs,  clambered  along  shore ;  and  once,  to  my 
unbounded  astonishment  and  alarm,  he  stripped  to 
the  skin  and  went  head  first  into  the  sea  from  the 
base  of  the  Good  Promise  cliffs.  Then  nothing 
would  content  him  but  that  I,  too,  should  strip  and 
plunge  in  :  which  I  did  (though  you  may  think  it 
extraordinary),  lest  he  think  me  afraid  to  trust  his 
power  to  save  me.  Thus  the  invigourating  air,  the 
yellow  sunlight,  the  smiling  sea  beyond  the  rocks, 
the  blue  sky  overhead,  were  separate  delights  in 
which  our  friendship  ripened  :  so  that  at  times  I 
wondered  what  loneliness  would  overtake  me  when 
he  had  gone.  I  told  him  I  wished  he  would  not  go 
away  on  the  mail-boat,  but  would  stay  and  live  with 


A   SMILING  FACE  127 

us,  that,  being  a  doctor,  as  he  had  said,  he  might 
heal  our  folk  when  they  fell  sick,  and  no  one  would 
die,  any  more.  He  laughed  at  that — but  not  be 
cause  of  merriment — and  gripped  my  hand  tighter, 
and  I  began  to  hope  that,  perhaps,  he  would  not  go 
away ;  but  he  did  not  tell  me  whether  he  would  or 
not. 

When  the  mail-boat  was  near  due,  my  sister  said 
that  I  must  have  the  doctor  to  tea;  for  it  would 
never  do,  said  she,  to  accept  his  kindnesses  and  show 
no  hospitality  in  return.  In  reply  to  this  Doctor  Luke 
said  that  I  must  present  his  compliments  to  my  sis 
ter  (which  I  thought  a  curious  way  of  putting  it),  and 
say  that  he  accepted  the  invitation  with  great  pleas 
ure  ;  and,  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  grave  mo 
ment,  he  had  me  repeat  the  form  until  I  knew  it 
perfectly.  That  evening  my  sister  wore  a  long  skirt, 
fashioned  in  haste  from  one  of  my  mother's  gowns, 
and  this,  with  my  mother's  keys,  which  she  kept 
hanging  from  her  girdle,  as  my  mother  used  to  do, 
made  her  very  sweetly  staid.  The  doctor  came 
speckless,  wearing  his  only  shirt,  which  (as  Tom 
Tot's  wife  made  known  to  all  the  harbour)  he 
had  paid  one  dollar  to  have  washed  and  ironed 
in  three  hours  for  the  occasion,  spending  the 
interval  (it  was  averred)  in  his  room.  While  we 


128      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

waited  for  the  maids  to  lay  the  table,  my  sister 
moved  in  and  out,  directing  them  ;  and  the  doctor 
gazed  at  her  in  a  way  so  marked  that  I  made  sure 
she  had  forgotten  a  hook  or  a  button,  and  followed 
her  to  the  kitchen  to  discover  the  omission. 

"  Sure,  Bessie,  dear,"  I  began,  very  gingerly,  "  I'm 
fair  dreadin'  that  you're — you're " 

She  was  humming,  in  happy  unconsciousness  of 
her  state ;  and  I  was  chagrined  by  the  necessity  of 
disclosing  it :  but  resolutely  continued,  for  it  must 
be  done. 

"  Loose,"  I  concluded. 

She  gave  a  little  jump — a  full  inch,  it  may  be — 
from  the  floor. 

"  Davy  ! "  she  cried,  in  mixed  horror  and  distress. 
"  Oh,  dear  !  Whereabouts  ?  " 

"  Do  you  turn  around,"  said  I,  "  an'  I'll  soon  find 
out." 

She  whirled  like  a  top.  But  I  could  find  nothing 
awry.  She  was  shipshape  from  head  to  toe. 

"  Tis  very  queer,"  said  I.  "  Sure,  I  thought  you'd 
missed  a  button,  for  the  doctor  is  lookin'  at  you  all 
the  time." 

"  At  me!  "  she  cried. 

"  Ay,  at  you." 

She  was  then  convinced  with  me  that  there  was 
something  amiss,  and  called  the  maids  to  our  help, 


A  SMILING  FACE  129 

for,  as  she  said,  I  was  only  a  boy  (though  a  dear 
one),  and  ill  schooled  in  such  matters.  But  it  turned 
out  that  their  eyes  were  no  sharper  than  mine. 
They  pronounced  her  hooked  and  buttoned  and 
pinned  to  the  Queen's  taste. 

"  'Tis  queer,  then,"  I  persisted,  when  the  maids 
had  gone,  "  that  he  looks  at  you  so  hard." 

"  Is  you  sure  he  does  ?  "  she  asked,  much  puzzled, 
"  for,"  she  added,  with  a  little  frown,  "  I'm  not 
knowin'  why  he  should." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  I. 

At  table  we  were  very  quiet,  but  none  the  less 
happy  for  that ;  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  moth 
er's  gentle  spirit  hovered  near,  content  with  what  we 
did.  And  after  tea  my  father  sat  with  the  doctor  on 
our  platform,  talking  of  disease  and  healing,  until,  in 
obedience  to  my  sister's  glance,  I  took  our  guest 
away  to  the  harbour,  to  see  (as  I  said)  the  greatest 
glories  of  the  sunset :  for,  as  I  knew,  my  sister  wished 
to  take  my  father  within,  and  change  the  current  of 
his  thought.  Then  I  rowed  the  doctor  to  North 
Tickle,  and  let  the  punt  lie  in  the  swell  of  the  open 
sea,  where  it  was  very  solemn  and  quiet.  The  sky 
was  heavy  with  drifting  masses  of  cloud,  aflare  with 
red  and  gold  and  all  the  sunset  colours,  from  the 
black  line  of  coast,  lying  in  the  west,  far  into  the 
east,  where  sea  and  sky  were  turning  gray.  Indeed, 


130      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

it  was  very  still,  very  solemn,  lying  in  the  long, 
crimson  swell  of  the  great  deep,  while  the  dusk  came 
creeping  over  the  sea. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  the  doctor  muttered,  with  a 
shudder,  "  that  the  people  who  dwell  here  fear  God." 

There  was  something  familiar  to  me  in  that  feel 
ing  ;  but  for  the  moment  I  could  not  make  it  out. 

"  Zur  ?  "  I  said. 

His  eyes  ranged  timidly  over  the  sombre  waste — 
the  vasty,  splendid  heavens,  the  coast,  dark  and  un 
feeling,  the  infinite,  sullen  sea,  which  ominously 
darkened  as  he  looked — and  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  No,"  he  whispered,  looking  up,  "  I  do  not  won 
der  that  you  believe  in  God — and  fear  Him  !  " 

Then  I  knew  that  roundabout  he  felt  the  presence 
of  an  offended  God. 

"  And  fear  Him  ! "  he  repeated. 

I  levelled  my  finger  at  him.  "  You  been  wicked  !  " 
I  said,  knowing  that  my  accusation  was  true. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  been  wicked." 

"  Is  you  goin'  t"  be  good  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  good — now." 

"  You  isn't  goin'  away,  is  you  ?  "  I  wailed. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  here,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  and 
treat  the  people,  who  need  me,  and  try,  in  that  way, 
to  be  good." 


A  SMILING  FACE  131 

«  I'd  die  t'  sec  it !  "  cried  I. 

He  laughed — and  the  tension  vanished — and  we 
went  happily  back  to  harbour.  I  had  no  thought 
that  the  resolution  to  which  he  had  come  was  in  any 
way  extraordinary. 

I  ran  to  the  Rat  Hole,  that  night,  to  give  the  great 
news  to  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  and  the  twins. 
"  Ecod  !  "  the  old  man  cried,  vastly  astounded.  "  Is 
he  t'  stay,  now  ?  Well,  well !  Then  they's  no  need 
goin'  on  with  the  book.  Ecod  !  now  think  o'  that ! 
An'  'tis  all  because  your  mother  died,  says  you, 
when  he  might  have  saved  her!  Ah,  Davy,  the 
ways  o'  God  is  strange.  He  manages  somehow  t' 
work  a  blessin'  with  death  an'  wreck.  '  I'm  awful 
sorry  for  they  poor  children,'  says  He,  '  an'  for  the 
owners  o'  that  there  fine  ship ;  but  I  got  t'  have  My 
way,'  says  He,  '  or  the  world  would  never  come  t' 
much ;  so  down  goes  the  ship,'  says  He,  '  an'  up 
comes  that  dear  mother  t'  my  bosom.  'Tis  no  use 
tellin'  them  why,'  says  He, '  for  they  wouldn't  under 
stand.  An',  ecod ! '  says  He,  '  while  I'm  about  it  I'll 
just  put  it  in  the  mind  o'  that  doctor-man  t'  stay 
right  there  an'  do  a  day's  work  or  two  for  Me.'  I'm 
sure  He  meant  it — I'm  sure  He  meant  t'  do  just  that 
— I'm  sure  'twas  all  done  o'  purpose.  We  thinks 
He's  hard  an'  a  bit  free  an'  careless.  Ecod !  they's 


132      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

times  when  we  thinks  He  fair  bungles  His  job.  He 
kills  us,  an'  He  cripples  us,  an'  He  starves  us,  an'  He 
hurts  our  hearts ;  an'  then,  Davy,  we  says  He's  a 
dunderhead  at  runnin'  a  world,  which,  says  we,  we 
could  run  a  sight  better,  if  we  was  able  t'  make  one. 
But  the  Lard,  Davy,  does  His  day's  work  in  a  sea- 
manlike  way,  usin'  no  more  crooked  backs  an'  empty 
stomachs  an'  children's  tears  an'  broken  hearts  than 
He  can  help.  Tis  little  we  knows  about  what  He's 
up  to.  An'  'tis  wise,  I'm  thinkin',  not  t'  bother  about 
tryin'  t'  find  out.  Tis  better  t'  let  Him  steer  His 
own  course  an'  ask  no  questions.  I  just  knowed  He 
was  up  t'  something  grand.  I  said  so,  Davy  !  'Tis 
just  like  the  hymn,  lad,  about  His  hidin'  a  smilin' 
face  behind  a  frownin'  providence.  Ah,  Davy,  He'll 
take  care  o'  we  !  " 

All  of  which,  as  you  know,  was  quite  characteristic 
of  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy. 


XIV 
In     The    WATCHES    of    The    NIGHT 

AT  once  we  established  the  doctor  in  our 
house,  that  he  might  be  more  comfortably 
disposed  ;  and  this  was  by  my  sister's  wish, 
who  hoped  to  be  his  helper  in  the  sweet  labour  of 
healing.  And  soon  a  strange  thing  happened :  once 
in  the  night — 'twas  late  of  a  clear,  still  night — I 
awoke,  of  no  reason ;  nor  could  I  fall  asleep  again, 
but  lay  high  on  the  pillow,  watching  the  stars,  which 
peeped  in  at  my  window,  companionably  winking. 
Then  I  heard  the  fall  of  feet  in  the  house — a  restless 
pacing :  which  brought  me  out  of  bed,  in  a  twinkling, 
and  took  me  tiptoeing  to  the  doctor's  room,  whence 
the  unusual  sound.  But  first  I  listened  at  the  door  ; 
and  when  I  had  done  that,  I  dared  not  enter,  because 
of  what  I  heard,  but,  crouching  in  the  darkness,  must 
continue  to  listen  .  .  .  and  listen  .  .  . 

By  and  by  I  crept  away  to  my  sister's  room,  un 
able  longer  to  bear  the  awe  and  sorrow  in  my  heart. 
"  Bessie  !  "  I  called,  in  a  low  whisper. 
"  Ay,  Davy  ?  " 
"  Is  you  awake  ?  " 

133 


154      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Ay,  I'm  wakeful." 

I  closed  the  door  after  me — then  went  swiftly  to 
her  bedside,  treading  with  great  caution. 

"  Listenin'  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  T  the  doctor,"  she  answered,  "  walkin'  the  floor." 

"  Is  you  afraid  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  No." 

"  I  is." 

She  sat  up  in  bed — and  drew  me  closer.  "An' 
why,  dear  ?  "  she  asked,  stroking  my  cheek. 

"  Along  o'  what  I  heared  in  the  dark,  Bessie — at 
his  door." 

"  You've  not  been  eavesdropping  Davy  ? "  she 
chided. 

"  Oh,  I  wisht  I  hadn't !  " 

"  'Twas  not  well  done." 

The  moon  was  up,  broadly  shining  behind  the 
Watchman  :  my  sister's  white  little  room — kept 
sweet  and  dainty  in  the  way  she  had — was  full  of 
soft  gray  light ;  and  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  wide 
and  moist. 

"  He's  wonderful  restless,  the  night,"  she  mused. 

"  He've  a  great  grief." 

"A  grief?     Oh,  Davy  !" 

"  Ay,  a  great,  great  grief !  He've  been  talkin'  to 
hisself,  Bessie.  But  'tis  not  words  ;  'tis  mostly  only 
sounds." 


In  The  WATCHES  of  The  NIGHT       135 

"  Naught  else  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay  !     He've  said " 

"  Hush  !  "  she  interrupted.  "  Tis  not  right  for 
me  t'  know.  I  would  not  have  you  tell " 

I  would  not  be  stopped.  "  He've  said,  Bessie," 
I  continued,  catching  something,  it  may  be,  of  his 
agony,  "  he've  said, '  I  pay  !  Oh,  God,  I  pay  ! '  he've 
said.  '  Merciful  Christ,  hear  me — oh,  I  pay  ! '  ' 

She  trembled. 

"  'Tis  some  great  grief,"  said  I. 

"  Do  you  haste  to  his  comfort,  Davy,"  she  whis 
pered,  quickly.  "  Twould  be  a  kind  thing  t'  do." 

"  Is  you  sure  he's  wantin'  me  ?  " 

"  Were  it  me  I  would." 

When  I  had  got  to  the  doctor's  door  again,  I 
hesitated,  as  before,  fearing  to  go  in  ;  and  once  more 
I  withdrew  to  my  sister's  room. 

"  I'm  not  able  t'  go  in,"  I  faltered.  "  'Tis  awful, 
Bessie,  t'  hear  men  goin'  on — like  that." 

"  Like  what  ?  " 

"  Cryin'." 

A  little  while  longer  I  sat  silent  with  my  sister — 
until,  indeed,  the  restless  footfalls  ceased,  and  the 
blessed  quiet  of  night  fell  once  again. 

"  An',  Bessie,"  said  I,  "  he  said  a  queer  thing." 

She  glanced  a  question. 

"  He  said  your  name ! " 


136      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

She  was  much  interested — but  hopelessly  puzzled. 
For  a  moment  she  gazed  intently  at  the  stars.  Then 
she  sighed. 

"  He've  a  great  grief,"  I  repeated,  sighing,  "  an' 
he've  been  wicked." 

"  Oh,  no — not  wicked ! " 

"Ay,"  I  persisted,  gently,"  wicked;  for  he've  told 
me  so  with  his  own  tongue." 

"  Not  wicked  ! " 

"  But  he've  said  so,"  I  insisted,  nettled,  on  the  in 
stant,  by  my  sister's  perversity. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  he  couldn't  be,"  she  said. 

"  Sure,  why  not  ?  "  I  demanded. 

She  looked  away  for  a  moment — through  the 
window,  into  the  far,  starlit  sky,  which  the  light  of 
the  moon  was  fast  paling  ;  and  I  thought  my  ques 
tion  forgot. 

"  Why  not,  sister  ?  " 

"  I — don't  know — why  not !  "  she  whispered. 

I  kissed  my  sister  good-night,  while  yet  she  puz 
zled  over  this,  and  slipped  off  to  my  own  room,  lift 
ing  my  night-dress,  as  I  tiptoed  along,  lest  I  trip  and 
by  some  clumsy  commotion  awake  my  friend  to 
his  bitterness.  Once  back  in  my  bed — once  again 
lying  alone  in  the  tranquil  night — I  found  the  stars 
still  peeping  in  at  my  window,  still  twinkling  com- 


In  The  BATCHES  of  The  NIGHT        137 

panionably,  as  I  had  left  them.  And  I  thought,  as 
my  mother  had  taught  me,  of  these  little  watchmen, 
serene,  constant,  wise  in  their  great  remoteness — and 
of  him  who  lay  in  unquiet  sleep  near  by — and,  then, 
understanding  nothing  of  the  mystery,  nor  caring  to 
know,  but  now  secure  in  the  unquestioning  faith  of 
childhood,  I  closed  my  eyes  to  sleep :  for  the  stars  still 
shone  on,  flashing  each  its  little  message  of  serenity 
to  the  troubled  world. 


XV 
THE    WOLF 

IN  course  of  time,  the  mail-boat  cleared  our 
harbour  of  wrecked  folk ;  and  within  three 
weeks  of  that  day  my  father  was  cast  away  on 
111  Wind  Head :  being  alone  on  the  way  to  Preach 
ing  Cove  with  the  skiff,  at  the  moment,  for  fish  to 
fill  out  the  bulk  of  our  first  shipment  to  the  market  at 
St.  John's,  our  own  catch  having  disappointed  the 
expectation  of  us  every  one.  My  sister  and  I  were 
then  left  to  manage  my  father's  business  as  best  we 
could :  which  we  must  determine  to  do,  come  weal 
or  woe,  for  we  knew  no  other  way.  My  sister  said, 
moreover,  that,  whether  we  grew  rich  or  poor,  'twas 
wise  and  kind  to  do  our  best,  lest  our  father's  folk, 
who  had  ever  been  loyal  to  his  trade,  come  upon 
evil  times  at  the  hands  of  traders  less  careful  of  their 
welfare.  Large  problems  of  management  we  did 
perceive,  but  only  the  simple,  immediate  labour,  to 
which  we  turned  with  naively  willing  heads  and 
hands,  sure  that,  because  of  the  love  abroad  in  all  the 
world,  no  evil  would  befall  us. 

"  'Twill  be  fortune,"   my  sister  said,  in  her  sweet 
138 


THE  WOLF  139 

and  hopeful  way ;  "  for  the  big  world  is  good,  Davy," 
said  she,  "  to  such  as  are  bereft." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  o'  that." 

"  Ay,"  she  repeated,  unshaken,  "  the  world  is 
kind." 

"  You  is  but  a  girl,  Bessie,"  said  I,  "  an"  not  well 
acquaint  with  the  way  o'  the  world.  Still  an'  all,"  I 
mused,  "  Skipper  Tommy  says  'tis  kind,  an'  he've 
growed  wonderful  used  t"  livin'." 

"  We'll  not  fear  the  world." 

"  No,  no !  We'll  not  fear  it.  I'll  be  a  man,  sister, 
for  your  sake." 

"  An'  I  a  true  woman,"  said  she,  "  for  yours." 

To  Tom  Tot  we  gave  the  handling  of  the  fish  and 
stores,  resolving,  also,  to  stand  upon  his  judgment  in 
the  matter  of  dealing  supplies  to  the  thriftless  and  the 
unfortunate,  whether  generously  or  with  a  sparing 
hand,  for  the  men  of  our  harbour  were  known  to 
him,  every  one,  in  strength  and  conscience  and  will 
for  toil.  As  for  the  shop,  said  we,  we  would  mind  it 
ourselves,  for  'twas  but  play  to  do  it ;  and  thus,  in 
deed,  it  turned  out :  so  hearty  was  the  sport  it  pro 
vided  that  my  sister  and  I  would  hilariously  race  for 
the  big  key  (which  hung  on  a  high  nail  in  the  dining- 
room)  whenever  a  customer  came.  I  would  not  have 
you  think  us  unfeeling.  God  knows,  we  were  not 
that !  'Twas  this  way  with  us :  each  hid  the  pain, 


140      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

and  thus  thought  to  deceive  the  other  into  a  happier 
mood.  We  did  well  enough  in  the  shop ;  but  we 
could  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  the  books  in  my 
father's  safe ;  and  when  our  bewilderment  and  heart 
ache  came  to  ears  of  the  doctor  he  said  that  he 
would  himself  manage  the  letters  and  keep  the 
books  in  the  intervals  of  healing  the  sick  :  which, 
with  a  medicine  chest  they  had  brought  ashore  from 
the  wreck,  he  had  already  begun  to  practice. 

It  seemed,  then,  to  my  sister  and  me,  that  the  cur 
rent  of  our  life  once  more  ran  smooth. 

And  Jagger  of  Wayfarer's  Tickle — the  same  who 
sat  at  cards  with  the  mail-boat  doctor  and  beat  his 
dog  with  the  butt  of  a  whip — having  got  news  of 
my  father's  death,  came  presently  to  our  harbour, 
with  that  in  mind  which  jumped  ill  with  our  plans. 
We  had  dispiriting  weather:  a  raw  wind  bowled 
in  from  the  northeast,  whipping  the  fog  apace ;  and 
the  sea,  as  though  worried  out  of  patience,  broke  in 
a  short,  white-capped  lop,  running  at  cross  purposes 
with  the  ground-swell.  'Twas  evil  sailing  for  small 
craft :  so  whence  came  this  man's  courage  for  the  pas 
sage  'tis  past  me  even  now  to  fathom ;  for  he  had  no 
liking  to  be  at  sea,  but,  rather,  cursed  the  need  of 
putting  out,  without  fail,  and  lay  prone  below  at  such 
unhappy  times  as  the  sloop  chanced  to  toss  in  rough 


THE  WOLF  141 

waters,  praying  all  the  time  with  amazing  ferocity. 
Howbeit,  across  the  bay  he  came,  his  le'e  rail 
smothered ;  and  when  he  had  landed,  he  shook  his 
gigantic  fist  at  the  sea  and  burst  into  a  triumphant 
bellow  of  blasphemy,  most  thrilling  (as  we  were  told) 
to  hear:  whereafter,  with  a  large  air  (as  of  pros 
pective  ownership),  he  inspected  the  flakes  and  store 
houses,  heartily  condemned  them,  wished  our  gaping 
crew  to  perdition,  and,  out  of  breath  at  last,  moved 
up  the  path  to  our  house,  his  great  dog  hanging  like 
a  shadow  at  his  heels — having  come  and  gone  on  the 
wharves,  as  Tom  Tot  said,  like  a  gale  o'  wind. 

My  sister  and  I  sat  dreaming  in  the  evening  light 
— wherein,  of  soft  shadows  and  western  glory,  fine 
futures  may  by  any  one  be  fashioned. 

"'Tis  rich,"  said  I,  "  that  I'm  wantin'  t'  be." 

"  Not  I,"  said  she. 

"  Not  you  ?  " 

"  Not  rich,"  she  answered,  "  but  helpful  t'  such  as 
do  the  work  o'  the  world." 

"  T'  me,  Bessie  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  with  a  smile  and  half  a  sigh,  "  t'  you." 

"  An'  only  me  ?  I'd  not  be  selfish  with  you. 
Is  you  wishin'  t'  be  helpful — only  t'  me  ?  " 

"  No." 

"T'him?" 

"  An  it  please  you,"  she  softly  answered. 


142      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  An'  we  t'  you,  Bessie ! "  I  cried,  in  a  rapture, 
kissing  her  plump  little  hand,  which  lay  over  my 
shoulder,  convenient  to  my  lips.  "  Ay,  for  your 
loving-kindness,  my  sister  !  " 

"  'Tis  t'  you,  first  of  all,  Davy,"  she  protested, 
quickly,  "  that  I'm  wishin'  t'  be  helpful ;  an'  then  t' 
him,  an'  then  t'  - 

"  T'  who?"  I  demanded,  frowning. 

"All  the  world,"  said  she. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  much  relieved  to  find  that  the 
interloper  was  no  more  to  be  dreaded.  "  I'll  not 
mind  that.  'Tis  as  you  like.  You'll  help  whomso 
you  please — an"  as  many.  For  I'm  t'  be  rich.  Rich 
— look  you  !  I'll  have  seven  schooners  t'  sail  the  north 
ern  Labrador,  as  the  doctor  says.  I'll  never  be  con 
tent  with  less.  Seven  I'll  have,  my  dear,  t'  fish  from 
the  Straits  t'  Chidley.  I'll  have  the  twins  t'  be  mas 
ters  o'  two ;  but  I'll  sail  the  big  one — the  swift  one — 
the  hundred-tonner — ay,  lass,  I'll  sail  she,  with  me 
own  hands.  An',  ecod  !  Bessie,  /'//  crack  it  on !  " 

"  You'll  not  be  rash,  dear  ?  "  said  she,  anxiously. 

"  Rash  !  "  laughed  I.  "  I'll  cut  off  the  reef  points  ! 
Rash  ?  There  won't  be  a  skipper  can  carry  sail  with 
me !  I'll  get  the  fish — an'  I'll  see  to  it  that  my  mas 
ters  does.  Then  I'll  push  our  trade  north  an'  south. 
Ay,  I  will !  Oh,  I  knows  what  I'll  do,  Bessie,  for  I 
been  talkin'  with  the  doctor,  an*  we  got  it  split  an' 


THE  WOLF  143 

dried.  Hard  work  an'  fair  dealing,  mum ;  that's 
what's  t'  do  it.  Our  father's  way,  mum  :  honest  scales 
on  the  wharf  an'  full  weight  at  the  counter.  'Twill 
be  that  or  bust " 

"  Why,  Davy,"  she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  flashing, 
"  you're  talkin'  like  a  growed  man  !  " 

"  Ay,  ecod  !  "  I  boasted,  flattered  by  the  inference, 
"  'twill  not  be  many  years  afore  we  does  more  trade 
in  our  harbour  than  they  does  at  the  big  stores  o'  Way 
farer's  Tickle." 

A  low  growl,  coming  from  the  shadows  in  the  hall, 
brought  me  to  a  full  stop ;  and  upon  the  heels  of  that 
a  fantastic  ejaculation : 

"  Scuttle  me  !  " 

So  sudden  and  savage  the  outburst,  so  raucous  the 
voice,  so  charged  with  angry  chagrin — the  whole  so 
incongruous  with  soft  dreams  and  evening  light — 
that  'twas  in  a  shiver  of  terror  my  sister  and  I  turned 
to  discover  whose  presence  had  disturbed  us. 

The  intruder  stood  in  the  door — a  stubby,  grossly 
stout  man,  thin-legged,  thick-necked,  all  body  and 
beard :  clad  below  in  tight  trousers,  falling  loose, 
however,  over  the  boots ;  swathed  above  in  an  ab 
surdly  inadequate  pea-jacket,  short  in  the  sleeves  and 
buttoned  tight  over  a  monstrous  paunch,  which 
laboured  (and  that  right  sturdily)  to  burst  the  bonds  of 


its  confinement,  but  succeeded  only  in  creating  a  vast 
confusion  of  wrinkles.  His  attitude  was  that  of  a 
man  for  the  moment  amazed  beyond  utterance :  his 
head  was  thrown  back,  so  that  of  his  face  nothing 
was  to  be  seen  but  a  short,  ragged  growth  of  iron-gray 
beard  and  a  ridge  of  bushy  eyebrow ;  his  hands  were 
plunged  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets,  which  the  fists 
distended ;  his  legs,  the  left  deformed  (being  bent  in 
ward  at  the  knee),  were  spread  wide.  In  the  shadows 
beyond  lurked  a  huge  dog — a  mighty,  sullen  beast, 
which  came  stepping  up,  with  lowered  head,  to  peer 
at  us  from  between  his  master's  legs. 

"  I'll  be  scuttled,"  said  the  man,  bringing  his  head 
forward  with  a  jerk,  "  if  the  little  cock  wouldn't  cut 
into  the  trade  o'  Wayfarer's  Tickle  !  " 

Having  thus  in  a  measure  mastered  his  amazement 
(and  not  waiting  to  be  bidden),  he  emerged  from  the 
obscurity  of  the  doorway,  advanced,  limping  heavily, 
and  sat  himself  in  my  father's  chair,  from  which,  his 
bandy  legs  comfortably  hanging  from  the  table,  where 
he  had  disposed  his  feet,  he  regarded  me  in  a  way  so 
sinister — with  a  glance  so  fixed  and  ill-intentioned — 
that  his  great,  hairy  face,  malformed  and  mottled,  is 
clear  to  me  to  this  day,  to  its  last  pimple  and  wrinkle, 
its  bulbous,  flaming  nose  and  bloodshot  eyes,  as  though 
'twere  yesterday  I  saw  it.  And  there  he  sat,  puffing 
angrily,  blowing  his  nose  like  a  whale,  scowling, 


'THE  WOLF  145 

ejaculating,  until  (as  I've  no  doubt)  he  conceived  us 
to  have  been  reduced  to  a  condition  of  trepidation 
wherein  he  might  most  easily  overmaster  us. 

"  Scuttled  !  "  he  repeated,  fetching  his  paunch  a  re 
sounding  thwack.  "  Bored ! " 

Thereupon  he  drew  from  the  depths  of  his  trousers 
pocket  a  disreputable  clay  pipe,  filled  it,  got  it  alight, 
noisily  puffed  it,  darting  little  glances  at  my  sister  and 
me  the  while,  in  the  way  of  one  outraged — now  of 
reproach,  now  of  righteous  indignation,  now  betraying 
uttermost  disappointment — for  all  the  world  as  though 
he  had  been  pained  to  surprise  us  in  the  thick  of  a 
conspiracy  to  wrong  him,  but,  being  of  a  meek  and 
most  forgiving  disposition,  would  overlook  the  offense, 
though  'twas  beyond  his  power,  however  willing  the 
spirit,  to  hide  the  wound  our  guilt  had  dealt  him. 
Whatever  the  object  of  this  display,  it  gave  me  a 
great  itching  to  retreat  behind  my  sister's  skirts,  for 
fear  and  shame.  And,  as  it  appeared,  he  was  quick 
to  conjecture  my  feeling :  for  at  once  he  dropped 
the  fantastic  manner  and  proceeded  to  a  quiet  and 
appallingly  lucid  statement  of  his  business. 

"  I'm  Jagger  o'  Wayfarer's  Tickle,"  said  he,  "  an' 
I'm  come  t'  take  over  this  trade." 

"  'Tis  not  for  sale, "  my  sister  answered. 

"  I  wants  the  trade  o'  this  harbour,"  said  he,  ignoring 
her,  "  on  my  books.  An'  I  got  t'  have  it." 


146      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  We're  wantin'  my  father's  business,"  my  sister 
persisted,  but  faintly  now,  "  for  Davy,  when  he's 
growed." 

"  I'm  able  t'  buy  you  out,"  Jagger  pursued,  address 
ing  the  ceiling,  "  or  run  you  out.  Tis  cheaper  an' 
quicker  t'  buy  you  out.  Now,"  dropping  his  eyes 
suddenly  to  my  sister's,  "  how  much  are  you  askin' 
for  this  here  trade  ?  " 

"  'Tis  not  for  sale." 

"  Not  for  sale  ?  "  roared  he,  jumping  up. 

"  No,  zur,"  she  gasped. 

"  If  I  can't  buy  it,"  he  cried,  in  a  rage,  driving  the 
threat  home  with  an  oath  peculiarly  unfit  for  the  ears 
of  women,  "  I'll  break  it !  " 

Which  brought  tears  to  my  tender  sister's  eyes ; 
whereupon,  with  a  good  round  oath  to  match  his 
own,  I  flew  at  him,  in  a  red  passion,  and,  being  at 
all  times  agile  and  now  moved  to  extraordinary 
effort,  managed  to  inflict  some  damage  on  his  shins 
before  he  was  well  aware  of  my  intention — and  that 
so  painful  that  he  yelped  like  a  hurt  cur.  But  he 
caught  me  by  the  arms,  which  he  jammed  against 
my  ribs,  lifted  me  high,  cruelly  shaking  me,  and  sat 
me  on  the  edge  of  the  table  in  a  fashion  so  sudden 
and  violent  that  my  teeth  came  together  with  a 
snap :  having  done  which,  he  trapped  my  legs  with 
his  paunch,  and  thus  held  me  in  durance  impotent 


THE  WOLF  147 

and  humiliating,  so  that  I  felt  mean,  indeed,  to  come 
to  such  a  pass  after  an  attack  impetuously  under 
taken  and  executed  with  no  little  gallantry  and 
effect.  And  he  brought  his  face  close  to  mine,  his 
eyes  flaring  and  winking  with  rage,  his  lips  lifted 
from  his  yellow,  broken  teeth ;  and  'twas  in  his 
mind,  as  I  perceived,  to  beat  me  as  I  had  never  been 
beaten  before. 

"  Ye  crab !  "  he  began.     "  Ye  little " 

"  The  dog  !  "  my  sister  screamed. 

'Twas  timely  warning :  for  the  dog  was  crouched 
in  the  hall,  his  muscles  taut  for  the  spring,  his  king- 
hairs  bristling,  his  fangs  exposed. 

"  Down  !  "  shrieks  Jagger. 

The  diversion  released  me.  Jagger  sprang  away ; 
and  I  saw,  in  a  flash,  that  his  concern  was  not  for 
me,  but  for  himself,  upon  whom  the  dog's  baleful 
glance  was  fastened.  There  was  now  no  ring  of 
mastery  in  his  voice,  as  there  had  been  on  the  mail- 
boat,  but  the  shiver  of  panic  ;  and  this,  it  may  be, 
the  dog  detected,  for  he  settled  more  alertly,  pawing 
the  floor  with  his  forefeet,  as  though  seeking  firmer 
foothold  from  which  to  leap.  As  once  before,  I 
wished  the  beast  well  in  the  issue ;  indeed,  I  hoped 
'twould  be  the  throat  and  a  fair  grip !  But  Jagger 
caught  a  billet  of  wood  from  the  box,  and,  with  a 
hoarse,  stifled  cry— frightful  to  hear — drew  back  to 


148      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

throw.  Then  the  doctor's  light  step  sounded  in  the 
hall,  and  in  he  came,  brushing  past  the  dog,  which 
slunk  away  into  the  shadows.  For  a  moment  he 
regarded  us  curiously,  and  then,  his  brows  falling  in 
a  quick  frown,  he  laid  his  medicine  case  on  my 
sister's  sewing-machine,  with  never  a  word,  and  went 
to  the  window,  where  he  stood  idle,  gazing  out  over 
the  darkening  prospect  of  sea  and  rock  and  upon 
great  clouds  flushed  with  lurid  colour. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room — which  none  of  us 
who  waited  found  the  will  to  break. 

"  Jagger" — said  the  doctor. 

The  voice  was  low — almost  a  drawl — but  mightily 
authoritative :  being  without  trace  of  feeling,  but 
superior  to  passion,  majestic. 

"  Ay,  sir?" 

"  Go ! " 

The  doctor  still  stood  with  his  back  to  us,  still 
gazed,  continuing  tranquil,  through  the  broad 
window  to  the  world  without.  And  Jagger,  over 
mastered  by  this  confident  assumption  of  authority, 
went  away,  as  he  was  bidden,  casting  backward 
glances,  ominous  of  machinations  to  come. 

What  Jagger  uttered  on  my  father's  wharf — what 
on  the  deck  of  the  sloop  while  he  moored  his  dog 
to  the  windlass  for  a  beating — what  he  flung  back 


THE  WOLF  149 

while  she  gathered  way — strangely  moved  Tom  Tot, 
who  hearkened,  spellbound,  until  the  last  words  of  it 
(and  the  last  yelp  of  the  dog)  were  lost  in  the  dis 
tance  of  North  Tickle  :  it  impelled  the  old  man  (as 
he  has  said  many  a  time)  to  go  wash  his  hands. 
But  'tis  of  small  moment  beside  what  the  doctor  said 
when  informed  of  the  occurrences  in  our  house : 
being  this,  that  he  must  have  a  partnership  in  our 
firm,  because,  first,  it  was  in  his  heart  to  help  my 
sister  and  me,  who  had  been  kind  to  him  and  were 
now  like  sheep  fallen  in  with  a  wolf-pack,  and 
second,  because  by  thus  establishing  himself  on  the 
coast  he  might  avert  the  suspicion  of  the  folk  from 
such  good  works  as  he  had  in  contemplation. 

"  More  than  that,"  said  he,  "  we  will  prove  fair 
dealing  possible  here  as  elsewhere.  It  needs  but 
courage  and — money." 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  my  sister  said, "  that  Davy  has  the 
courage." 

"  And  I,"  said  he,  "  have  the  money." 

I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it. 


XVI 
A     MALADY    of    The    HEART 

IN  the  firelight  of  that  evening — when  the  maids 
had  cleared  the  cozy  room  and  carried  away  the 
lamp  and  we  three  sat  alone  together  in  my 
father's  house — was  planned  our  simple  partnership 
in  good  works  and  the  fish  business.  'Tis  wonder 
ful  what  magic  is  abroad  at  such  times — what 
dreams,  what  sure  hopes,  lie  in  the  flickering  blaze, 
the  warm,  red  glow,  the  dancing  shadows  ;  what  fine 
aspirations  unfold  in  hearts  that  are  brave  and  hope 
ful  and  kind.  Presently,  we  had  set  a  fleet  of  new 
schooners  afloat,  put  a  score  of  new  traps  in  the 
water,  proved  fair-dealing  and  prosperity  the  self 
same  thing,  visited  the  sick  of  five  hundred  miles, 
established  a  hospital — transformed  our  wretched 
coast,  indeed,  into  a  place  no  longer  ignorant  of 
jollity  and  thrift  and  healing.  The  doctor  projected 
all  with  lively  confidence — his  eyes  aflash,  his  lean, 
white  hand  eloquent,  his  tongue  amazingly  active 
and  persuasive — and  with  an  insight  so  sagacious 
and  well-informed,  a  purpose  so  pure  and  wise,  that 
he  revealed  himself  (though  we  did  not  think  of  it 

'5° 


A  MALADY  of  'The  HEART:  151 

then)  not  only  as  a  man  of  heart  but  of  conspicuous 
sense.  It  did  not  enter  our  minds  to  distrust  him : 
because  our  folk  are  not  sophisticated  in  polite  over 
reaching,  not  given  to  the  vice  of  suspicion,  and  be 
cause — well,  he  was  what  he  was. 

My  sister's  face  was  aglow — most  divinely  radiant 
— with  responsive  faith  and  enthusiasm ;  and  as  for 
me 

"  Leave  me  get  down,"  I  gasped,  at  last,  to  the 
doctor,  "  or  I'll  bust  with  delight,  by  heaven  ! " 

He  laughed,  but  unclasped  his  hands  and  let  me 
slip  from  his  knee ;  and  then  I  began  to  strut  the 
floor,  my  chest  puffed  out  to  twice  its  natural  extent. 

"  By  heaven  !  "  I  began.     "  If  that  Jagger " 

The  clock  struck  ten.  "  David  Roth,"  my  sister 
exclaimed,  lifting  her  hands  in  mock  horror,  "  'tis 
fair  scandalous  for  a  lad  o'  your  years  t'  be  up  't  this 
hour !  " 

"  Off  to  bed  with  you,  you  rascal ! "  roared  the 
doctor. 

"  I'll  not  go,"  I  protested. 

"  Off  with  you  !  " 

"  Not  I." 

"  Catch  un,  doctor  !  "  cried  my  sister. 

"  An  you  can,  zur  !  "  I  taunted. 

If  he  could  ?  Ecod !  He  snatched  at  me,  quick 
as  a  cat ;  but  I  dodged  his  hand,  laughed  in  his  face 


152      DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

and  put  the  table  between  us.  With  an  agility  be 
yond  compare — with  a  flow  of  spirits  like  a  gale  of 
wind — he  vaulted  the  broad  board.  The  great, 
grave  fellow  appeared  of  a  sudden  to  my  startled 
vision  in  midair — his  arms  and  legs  at  sixes  and 
sevens — his  coat-tails  flapping  like  a  loose  sail — his 
mouth  wide  open  in  a  demoniacal  whoop — and  I 
dropped  to  the  floor  but  in  the  bare  nick  of  time  to 
elude  him.  Uproarious  pursuit  ensued :  it  made  my 
sister  limp  and  pain-stricken  and  powerless  with 
laughter ;  it  brought  our  two  maids  from  the  kitchen 
and  kept  them  hysterically  screaming  in  the  door 
way,  the  lamp  at  a  fearsome  angle ;  it  tumbled  the 
furniture  about  with  rollicking  disregard,  led  the 
doctor  a  staggering,  scrambling,  leaping  course  in 
the  midst  of  upturned  tables  and  chairs,  and,  at 
last,  ran  the  gasping  quarry  to  earth  under  the  sofa. 
I  was  taken  out  by  the  heels,  shouldered,  carried 
aloft  and  flung  sprawling  on  my  bed — while  the 
whole  house  rang  again  with  peal  upon  peal  of 
hearty  laughter. 

"  Oh,  zur,"  I  groaned,  "  I  never  knowed  you  was 
so  jolly  !  " 

"  Not  so  ?  " 

"  On  my  word,  zur ! " 

He  sighed. 

"  I  fancied  you  was  never  but  sad." 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  153 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  he,  "  the  Labrador,  Davy,  is 
evidently  working  a  cure." 

"  God  be  thanked  for  that !  "  said  I,  devoutly. 

He  rumpled  my  hair  and  went  out.  And  I  bade 
him  send  my  sister  with  the  candle ;  and  while  I  lay 
waiting  in  the  dark  a  glow  of  content  came  upon  me 
— because  of  this  :  that  whereas  I  had  before  felt 
woefully  inadequate  to  my  sister's  protection,  how 
ever  boastfully  I  had  undertaken  it,  I  was  now  sure 
that  in  our  new  partnership  her  welfare  and  peace 
of  heart  were  to  be  accomplished.  Then  she  came 
in  and  sat  with  me  while  I  got  ready  for  bed.  She 
had  me  say  my  prayers  at  her  knee,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  but  this  night  hinted  that  an  additional  peti 
tion  for  the  doctor's  well-doing  and  happiness  might 
not  be  out  of  place.  She  chided  me,  after  that,  for 
the  temper  I  had  shown  against  Jagger  and  for  the 
oath  I  had  flung  at  his  head,  as  I  knew  she  would — 
but  did  not  chide  me  heartily,  because,  as  she  said, 
she  was  for  the  moment  too  gratefully  happy  to  re 
member  my  short-comings  against  m,e.  I  thanked 
her,  then,  for  this  indulgence,  and  told  her  that  she 
might  go  to  bed,  for  I  was  safely  and  comfortably 
bestowed,  as  she  could  see,  and  ready  for  sleep  ;  but 
she  would  not  go,  and  there  sat,  with  the  candle  in 
her  hand,  her  face  flushed  and  her  great  blue  eyes 
soulfully  glowing,  while  she  continued  to  chatter  in 


154      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

an  incoherent  and  strangely  irrelevant  fashion  :  so 
that,  astonished  into  broad  wakefulness  by  this  ex 
traordinary  behaviour,  I  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed, 
determined  to  discover  the  cause. 

"  Bessie  Roth,"  said  I,  severely,  "  what's  come 
upon  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  knowin',  Davy,"  she  answered,  softly, 
looking  away. 

"  Tis  somewhat  awful,  then,"  said  I,  in  alarm, 
"  for  you're  not  lookin'  me  in  the  eye." 

She  looked  then  in  her  lap — and  did  not  raise  her 
eyes,  though  I  waited :  which  was  very  strange. 

"  You  isn't  sick,  is  you  ?  " 

"  No-o,"  she  answered,  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  get  sick,"  I  protested.  "  'Twould 
never  do.  I'd  fair  die — if  you  got  sick  !  " 

"  'Tisn't  sickness;  'tis — I'm  not  knowin'  what." 

"  Ah,  come,"  I  pleaded  ;  "  what  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  Davy,  lad,"  she  faltered,  "  I'm  just — dreadful — 
happy." 

"  Happy  ?  "  cried  I,  scornfully.  "  'Tis  not  happi 
ness  !  Why,  sure,  your  lip  is  curlin'  with  grief! " 

"  But  I  was  happy." 

"  You  isn't  happy  now,  my  girl." 

"  No,"  she  sobbed,"  I'm  wonderful  miserable — now." 

I  kicked  off  the  covers.  "  You've  the  fever,  that's 
what !  "  I  exclaimed,  jumping  out  of  bed. 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  155 

"  Tis  not  that,  Davy." 

"  Then — oh,  for  pity's  sake,  Bessie,  tell  your 
brother  what's  gone  wrong  along  o'  you  !  " 

"  I'm  thinkin',  Davy,"  she  whispered,  despairingly, 
"  that  I'm  nothin'  but  a  sinful  woman." 

"  A — what !     Why,  Bessie  — 

"  Nothin',"  she  repeated,  positively,  "  but  a  sinful, 
wicked  person." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  said  I,  dancing  about  in  a 
rage. 

"  My  own  heart." 

"  Your  heart  !  "  cried  I,  blind  angry.  "  'Tis  a  liar 
an  it  says  so." 

"  What  words  !  "  she  exclaimed,  changed  in  a 
twinkling.  "  An'  to  your  sister  !  Do  you  get  back 
in  bed  this  instant,  David  Roth,  an'  tell  her  that 
you're  sorry." 

I  was  loath  to  do  it,  but  did,  to  pacify  her ;  and 
when  she  had  carried  away  the  candle  I  chuckled, 
for  I  had  cured  her  of  her  indisposition  for  that 
night,  at  any  rate  :  as  I  knew,  for  when  she  kissed 
me  'twas  plain  that  she  was  more  concerned  for  her 
wayward  brother  than  for  herself. 

Past  midnight  I  was  awakened  by  the  clang  of  the 
bell  on  my  father's  wharf.  'Twas  an  unpleasant 
sound.  Half  a  gale — no  less — could  do  it.  I  then 


156      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR. 

knew  that  the  wind  had  freshened  and  veered  to  the 
southeast ;  and  I  listened  to  determine  how  wild  the 
night.  Wild  enough  !  The  bell  clanged  frequently, 
sharply,  jangling  in  the  gusts — like  an  anxious  warn 
ing.  My  window  was  black  ;  there  was  no  light  in 
the  sky — no  star  shining.  Rain  pattered  on  the 
roof.  I  heard  the  rush  of  wind.  "Twas  inevitable 
that  I  should  contrast  the  quiet  of  the  room,  the  se 
curity  of  my  place,  the  comfort  of  my  couch  and 
blankets,  with  a  rain-swept,  heaving  deck  and  a  tu 
multuous  sea.  A  gusty  night,  I  thought — thick,  wet, 
with  the  wind  rising.  The  sea  would  be  in  a  turmoil 
on  the  grounds  by  dawn  :  there  would  be  no  fishing ; 
and  I  was  regretting  this — between  sleep  and 
waking — when  the  bell  again  clanged  dolefully. 
Roused,  in  a  measure,  I  got  ear  of  men  stumbling  up 
the  path.  I  was  into  my  breeches  before  they  had 
trampled  half  the  length  of  the  platform — well  on  my 
way  down  the  dark  stair  when  they  knocked  on  the 
door — standing  scared  in  the  light  of  their  lantern, 
the  door  open,  before  they  found  time  to  hail. 

I  was  addressed  by  a  gray  old  man  in  ragged  oil 
skins.  "  We  heared  tell,"  said  he,  mildly,  wiping  his 
dripping  beard,  "  that  you  got  a  doctor  here." 

I  said  that  we  had. 

"  Well,"  he  observed,  in  a  dull,  slow  voice,  "  we 
got  a  sick  man  over  there  t'  Wreck  Cove." 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  157 

"  Ay  ?  "  said  I. 

"  An'  we  was  sort  o'  wonderin',  wasn't  we,  Skipper 
Tom,"  another  put  in,  "  how  much  this  doctor  would 
be  askin'  t'  go  over  an'  cure  un  ?  " 

"  Well,  ay,"  the  skipper  admitted,  taking  off  his 
sou'wester  to  scratch  his  head,  "  we  did  kind  o'  have 
that  idea." 

"  Tis  a  wild  night,"  said  I  :  in  my  heart  doubting 
— and  that  with  shame — that  the  doctor  would  ven 
ture  out  upon  the  open  sea  in  a  gale  of  wind. 

"  'Tis  not  very  civil,"  said  the  skipper  frankly. 
"  I'm  free  t'  say,"  in  a  drawl, "  that  'tis — well — rather 
— dirty." 

"  An'  he  isn't  got  used  t'  sailin'  yet.     But  — 

"  No  ?  "  in  mild  wonder.  "  Isn't  he,  now  ?  Well, 
we  got  a  stout  little  skiff.  Once  she  gets  past  the 
Thirty  Devils,  she'll  maybe  make  Wreck  Cove,  all 
right — if  she's  handled  proper.  Oh,  she'll  maybe 
make  it  if  — 

"  Davy  !  "  my  sister  called  from  above.  "  Do  you 
take  the  men  through  t'  the  kitchen.  I'll  rouse  the 
doctor  an'  send  the  maids  down  t'  make  tea." 

"  Well,  now,  thank  you  kindly,  miss,"  Skipper  Tom 
called  up  to  the  landing.  "  That's  wonderful  kind." 

It  was  a  familiar  story — told  while  the  sleepy 
maids  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire  and  the  fury  of  the 
gale  increased.  'Twas  the  schooner  Lucky  Fisher- 


158      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

man,  thirty  tons,  Tom  Lisson  master,  hailing  from 
Burnt  Harbour  of  the  Newfoundland  Green  Bay, 
and  fishing  the  Labrador  at  Wreck  Cove,  with  a 
tidy  catch  in  the  hold  and  four  traps  in  the  water. 
There  had  been  a  fine  run  o'  fish  o'  late ;  an'  Bill 
Sparks,  the  splitter — with  a  brood  of  ten  children  to 
grow  fat  or  go  hungry  on  the  venture — labouring 
without  sleep  and  by  the  light  of  a  flaring  torch, 
had  stabbed  his  right  hand  with  a  fish  bone.  The 
old,  old  story — now  so  sadly  threadbare  to  me — of 
ignorance  and  uncleanliness  !  The  hand  was  swollen 
to  a  wonderful  size  and  grown  wonderful  angry — the 
man  gone  mad  of  pain — the  crew  contemplating 
forcible  amputation  with  an  axe.  Wonderful  sad  the 
mail-boat  doctor  wasn't  nowhere  near!  Wonderful 
sad  if  Bill  Sparks  must  lose  his  hand  !  Bill  Sparks 
was  a  wonderful  clever  hand  with  the  splittin'-knife 
— able  t'  split  a  wonderful  sight  o'  fish  a  minute. 
Wonderful  sad  if  Bill  Sparks's  family  was  to  be 
throwed  on  the  gov'ment  all  along  o'  Bill  losin'  his 
right  hand  !  Wonderful  sad  if  poor  Bill  Sparks  — 

The  doctor  entered  at  that  moment.  "  Who  is 
asking  for  me  ?  "  he  demanded,  sharply. 

"  Well,"  Skipper  Tom  drawled,  rising,  "  we  was 
thinkin1  we'd  sort  o'  like  t'  see  the  doctor." 

"  I  am  he,"  the  doctor  snapped.  "  Yes  ?  "  in 
quiringly. 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  159 

"  We  was  wonderin',  doctor,"  Skipper  Tom  an 
swered,  abashed,  "  what  you'd  charge  t'  go  t'  Wreck 
Cove  an' — an' — well,  use  the  knife  on  a  man's  hand." 

"  Charge  ?     Nonsense  !  " 

"  We'd  like  wonderful  well,"  said  the  skipper, 
earnestly,  "  t'  have  you  — 

"  But — to-night !  " 

"  You  see,  zur,"  said  the  skipper,  gently,  "  he've 
wonderful  pain,  an'  he've  broke  everything  breakable 
that  we  got,  an'  we've  got  un  locked  in  the  fo'c's'le, 
an' " 

"  Where's  Wreck  Cove  ?  " 

"  'Tis  t'  the  s'uth'ard,  zur,"  one  of  the  men  put  in. 
"  Some  twelve  miles  beyond  the  Thirty  Devils." 

The  doctor  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  stepped 
out.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the  weather.  A 
dirty  gale  was  blowing.  Wind  and  rain  drove  in 
irom  the  black  night;  and,  under  all  the  near  and 
petty  noises,  sounded  the  great,  deep  roar  of  breakers. 

"  Hear  that  ?  "  he  asked,  excitedly,  closing  the  door 
against  the  wind. 

"  Ay,"  the  skipper  admitted ;  "  as  I  was  tellin'  the 
young  feller,  it  isn't  so  very  civil." 

"  Civil !  "  cried  the  doctor. 

"  No ;  not  so  civil  that  it  mightn't  be  a  bit  civil- 
ler ;  but,  now  — 

"  And  twelve  miles  of  open  sea  ! " 


160      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  No,  zur — no ;  not  accordin'  t'  my  judgment. 
Eleven  an'  a  half,  zur,  would  cover  it." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"  An',  as  I  was  sayin',  zur,"  the  skipper  concluded, 
pointedly,  "  we  just  come  through  it." 

My  sister  and  I  exchanged  anxious  glances  :  then 
turned  again  to  the  doctor — who  continued  to  stare 
at  the  floor. 

"  Just,"  one  of  the  crew  repeated,  blankly,  for  the 
silence  was  painful,  "  come  through  it." 

The  doctor  looked  up.  "  Of  course,  you  know,"  he 
began,  quietly,  with  a  formal  smile,  "  I  am  not — ac 
customed  to  this  sort  of — professional  call.  It — 
rather — takes  my  breath  away.  When  do  we  start  ?  " 

Skipper  Tom  took  a  look  at  the  weather. 
"  Blowin'  up  wonderful,"  he  observed,  quietly, 
smoothing  his  long  hair,  which  the  wind  had  put 
awry.  "  Gets  real  dirty  long  about  the  Thirty  Devils 
in  the  dark.  Don't  it,  Will  ?  " 

Will  said  that  it  did — indeed,  it  did — no  doubt 
about  that,  whatever. 

"  I  s'pose,"  the  skipper  drawled,  in  conclusion, 
"  we'd  as  lief  get  underway  at  dawn." 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  doctor.  "  And — you  were 
asking  about  my  fee — were  you  not  ?  You'll  have 
to  pay,  you  know — if  you  can — for  I  believe  in — that 
sort  of  thing.  Could  you  manage  three  dollars  ?  " 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  161 

"  We  was  'lowin',1'  the  skipper  answered,  "  t'  pay 
about  seven  when  we  sold  the  v'y'ge  in  the  fall.  'Tis 
a  wonderful  bad  hand  Bill  Sparks  has  got." 

"  Let  it  be  seven,"  said  the  doctor,  quickly.  "  The 
balance  may  go,  you  know,  to  help  some  poor  devil 
who  hasn't  a  penny.  Send  it  to  me  in  the  fall 
if " 

The  skipper  looked  up  in  mild  inquiry. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  nervous  smile,  "  if 
we're  all  here,  you  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  skipper,  with  a  large  wave  of  the 
hand,  "  that's  God's  business." 

They  put  out  at  dawn — into  a  sea  as  wild  as  ever  I 
knew  an  open  boat  to  brave.  The  doctor  bade  us  a 
merry  good-bye ;  and  he  waved  his  hand,  shouting 
that  which  the  wind  swept  away,  as  the  boat  darted 
off  towards  South  Tickle.  My  sister  and  I  went  to 
the  heads  of  Good  Promise  to  watch  the  little  craft  on 
her  way.  The  clouds  were  low  and  black — torn  by 
the  wind — driving  up  from  the  southwest  like  mad  : 
threatening  still  heavier  weather.  We  followed  the 
skiff  with  my  father's  glass — saw  her  beat  bravely  on, 
reeling  through  the  seas,  smothered  in  spray — until 
she  was  but  a  black  speck  on  the  vast,  angry  waste, 
and,  at  last,  vanished  altogether  in  the  spume  and 
thickening  fog.  Then  we  went  back  to  my  father's 
house,  prayerfully  wishing  the  doctor  safe  voyage  to 


1 62      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Wreck  Cove  ;  and  all  that  day,  and  all  the  next,  while 
the  gale  still  blew,  my  sister  was  nervous  and  down 
cast,  often  at  the  window,  often  on  the  heads,  forever 
sighing  as  she  went  about  the  work  of  the  house. 
And  when  I  saw  her  thus  distraught  and  colourless — 
no  warm  light  in  her  eyes — no  bloom  on  her  dimpled 
cheeks — no  merry  smile  lurking  about  the  corners  of 
her  sweet  mouth — I  was  fretted  beyond  description  ; 
and  I  determined  this  :  that  when  the  doctor  got  back 
from  Wreck  Cove  I  should  report  her  case  to  him, 
whether  she  liked  it  or  not,  with  every  symptom  I 
had  observed,  and  entreat  him,  by  the  love  and  ad 
miration  in  which  I  held  him,  to  cure  her  of  her  mal 
ady,  whatever  the  cost. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  when  the  sea  was 
gone  down  and  the  wind  was  blowing  fair  and  mild 
from  the  south,  I  sat  with  my  sister  at  the  broad 
window,  where  was  the  outlook  upon  great  hills,  and 
upon  sombre  water,  and  upon  high,  glowing  sky — 
she  in  my  mother's  rocker,  placidly  sewing,  as  my 
mother  used  to  do,  and  I  pitifully  lost  in  my  father's 
armchair,  covertly  gazing  at  her,  in  my  father's 
way. 

"  Is  you  better,  this  even,  sister,  dear  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  ay,"  she  answered,  vehemently,  as  my  mother 
used  to  do.  "  Much  better." 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  163 

"  You're  wonderful  poorly." 

"  Tis  true,"  she  said,  putting  the  thread  between 
her  white  little  teeth.  "  But,"  the  strand  now  broken, 
"  though  you'd  not  believe  it,  Davy,  dear,  I'm  feeling 
— almost — nay,  quite — well." 

I  doubted  it.  "  'Tis  a  strange  sickness,"  I  ob 
served,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,  Davy,"  she  said,  her  voice  falling,  her  lips 
pursed,  her  brows  drawn  down.  "  I'm  not  able  t'  make 
it  out,  at  all.  I'm  feelin' — so  wonderful — queer." 

"  Is  you,  dear  ?  " 

"  Davy  Roth,"  she  averred,  with  a  wag  of  the  head 
so  earnest  that  strands  of  flaxen  hair  fell  over  her 
eyes,  and  she  had  to  brush  them  back  again,  "  I  never 
felt  so  queer  in  all  my  life  afore  !  " 

"  I'm  dreadful  worried  about  you,  Bessie." 

"Hut!  as  for  that,"  said  she,  brightly,  "I'm  not 
thinkin'  I'm  goin'  t'  die,  Davy." 

"  Sure,  you  never  can  tell  about  sickness,"  I  sagely 
observed. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  she.  "  I  isn't  got  that — kind  o' — 
sickness." 

"  Well,"  I  insisted,  triumphantly, "  you're  wonder 
ful  shy  o'  eatin'  pork." 

She  shuddered. 

"  I  wished  I  knowed  what  you  had,"  I  exclaimed 
impatiently. 


164      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  I  wished  you  did,"  she  agreed,  frankly,  if  some 
what  faintly.  "  For,  then,  Davy,  you'd  give  me  a 
potion  t'  cure  me." 

She  drew  back  the  curtain — for  the  hundredth 
time,  I  vow — and  peered  towards  South  Tickle. 

"  What  you  lookin'  for  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  was  thinkin',  Davy,"  she  said,  still  gazing 
through  the  window,  "  that  Skipper  Zach  Tupper 
might  be  comin'  in  from  the  Last  Chance  grounds 
with  a  fish  for  breakfast." 

The  Last  Chance  grounds  ?  'Twas  ignorance  be 
yond  belief !  "  Bessie,"  I  said,  with  heat,  "  is  you 
gone  mad  ?  Doesn't  you  know  that  no  man  in  his 
seven  senses  would  fish  the  Last  Chance  grounds  in 
a  light  southerly  wind?  Why  — 

"  Well,"  she  interrupted,  with  a  pretty  pout,  "  you 
knows  so  well  as  me  that  Zach  Tupper  haven't  got 
his  seven  senses." 

"  Bessie ! " 

She  peeked  towards  South  Tickle  again ;  and  then 
— what  a  wonder-worker  the  divine  malady  is  ! — she 
leaned  eagerly  forward,  her  sewing  falling  unheeded 
to  the  floor ;  and  her  soft  breast  rose  and  fell  to  a 
rush  of  sweet  emotion,  and  her  lips  parted  in  deli 
cious  wonderment,  and  the  blood  came  back  to  her 
cheeks,  and  her  dimples  were  no  longer  pathetic,  but 
eloquent  of  sweetness  and  innocence,  and  her  eyes 


A  MALADY  of  The  HEART  165 

turned  moist  and  brilliant,  glowing  with  the  glory 
of  womanhood  first  recognized,  tender  and  pure. 
Ah,  my  sister — lovely  in  person  but  lovelier  far  in 
heart  and  mind — adorably  innocent — troubled  and 
destined  to  infinitely  deeper  distress  before  the  end — 
brave  and  true  and  hopeful  through  all  the  chequered 
course  of  love  !  You  had  not  known,  dear  heart, 
but  then  discovered,  all  in  a  heavenly  flash,  what 
sickness  you  suffered  of. 

"  Davy  !  "  she  whispered. 

"  Ay,  dear  ?  " 

"  I'm  knowin' — now — what  ails  me." 

I  sat  gazing  at  her  in  love  and  great  awe.  "  'Tis 
not  a  wickedness,  Bessie,"  I  declared. 

"  No,  no  !  " 

"  'Tis  not  that.     No,  no  !     I  knows  'tis  not  a  sin." 

"  Tis  a  holy  thing,"  she  said,  turning,  her  eyes 
wide  and  solemn. 

"  A  holy  thing  ?  " 

"  Ay— holy  !  " 

I  chanced  to  look  out  of  the  window.  "  Ecod  ! " 
I  cried.  "  The  Wreck  Cove  skiff"  is  in  with  Doctor 
Luke!" 

Unfeeling,  like  all  lads — in  love  with  things  seen — 
I  ran  out. 

The  doctor  came  ashore  at  the  wharf  in  a  state  of 


1 66      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

wild  elation.  He  made  a  rush  for  me,  caught  me 
up,  called  to  the  crew  of  the  skiff  to  come  to  the 
house  for  tea — then  shouldered  me,  against  my 
laughing  protest,  and  started  up  the  path. 

"  I'm  back,  safe  and  sound,"  cried  he.  "  Davy,  I 
have  been  to  Wreck  Cove  and  back." 

"  An'  you're  wonderful  happy,"  cried  I,  from  the 
uncertain  situation  of  his  shoulder. 

"  Happy  ?  That's  the  word,  Davy.  I'm  happy  ! 
And  why?" 

"  Tell  me." 

"  I've  done  a  good  deed.  I've  saved  a  man's  right 
hand.  I've  done  a  good  deed  for  once,"  he  repeated, 
between  his  teeth,  "  by  God  !  " 

There  was  something  contagious  in  all  this ;  and 
(I  say  it  by  way  of  apology)  I  was  ever  the  lad  to 
catch  at  a  rousing  phrase. 

"  A  good  deed  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  By  God,  you'll 
do " 

He  thrashed  me  soundly  on  the  spot. 


XVII 
HARD    PRACTICE 

I  BORE  him  no  grudge — the  chastisement  had 
been  fairly  deserved :  for  then,  being  loosed  from 
parental  restraint,  I  was  by  half  too  fond  of 
aping  the  ways  and  words  of  full-grown  men ;  and 
I  was  not  unaware  of  the  failing.  However,  the 
prediction  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue — that  he  would 
live  to  do  many  another  good  deed — would  have 
found  rich  fulfillment  had  it  been  spoken.  It  was 
soon  noised  the  length  of  the  coast  that  a  doctor 
dwelt  in  our  harbour — one  of  good  heart  and  skill 
and  courage :  to  whom  the  sick  of  every  station 
might  go  for  healing.  In  short  space  the  inevitable 
came  upon  us  :  punts  put  in  for  the  doctor  at  un 
seasonable  hours,  desperately  reckless  of  weather ; 
schooners  beat  up  with  men  lying  ill  or  injured  in 
the  forecastles ;  the  folk  of  the  neighbouring  ports 
brought  their  afflicted  to  be  miraculously  restored, 
and  ingenuously  quartered  their  dying  upon  us.  A 
wretched  multitude  emerged  from  the  hovels — cry 
ing,  "  Heal  us  !  "  And  to  every  varied  demand  the 
doctor  freely  responded,  smiling  heartily,  God  bless 
him !  spite  of  wind  and  weather :  ready,  active, 

167 


168      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

merry,  untiring — sad  but  when  the  only  gift  he  bore 
was  that  of  tender  consolation. 


One  night  there  came  a  maid  from  Punch  Bowl 
Harbour.  My  sister  sent  her  to  the  shop,  where  the 
doctor  was  occupied  with  the  accounts  of  our  busi 
ness,  myself  to  keep  him  company.  'Twas  a  raw, 
black  night ;  and  she  entered  with  a  gust  of  wind, 
which  fluttered  the  doctor's  papers,  set  the  lamp 
flaring,  and,  at  last,  escaped  by  way  of  the  stove  to 
the  gale  from  which  it  had  strayed. 

"  Is  you  the  doctor  ?  "  she  gasped. 

She  stood  with  her  back  against  the  door,  one 
hand  still  on  the  knob  and  the  other  shading  her 
eyes — a  slender  slip  of  a  girl,  her  head  covered  with 
a  shawl,  now  dripping.  Whisps  of  wet  black  hair 
clung  to  her  forehead,  and  rain-drops  lay  in  the 
flushed  hollows  of  her  cheeks. 

"  I  am,"  the  doctor  answered,  cheerily,  rising  from 
his  work. 

"  Well,  zur,"  said  she, "  I'm  Tim  Hodd's  maid,  zur, 
an'  I'm  just  come  from  the  Punch  Bowl  in  the  bait- 
skiff,  zur — for  healin'." 

"  And  what,  my  child,"  asked  the  doctor,  sympa 
thetically,  "  may  be  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

Looking  back — with  the  added  knowledge  that  I 
have — it  seems  to  me  that  he  had  no  need  to  ask  the 


HARD    PRACTICE  169 

question.  The  flush  and  gasp  told  the  story  well 
enough,  quite  well  enough  :  the  maid  was  dying  of 
consumption. 

"  Me  lights  is  floatin',  zur,"  she  answered. 

"  Your  lights  ?  " 

"  Ay,  zur,"  laying  a  hand  on  her  chest.  "  They're 
floatin'  wonderful  high.  I  been  tryin'  t'  kape  un 
down ;  but,  zur,  'tis  no  use,  at  all." 

With  raised  eyebrows  the  doctor  turned  to  me. 
"  What  does  she  mean,  Davy,"  he  inquired,  "  by  her 
«  lights  '  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  well  knowin',"  said  I ;  "  but  if  'tis  what 
we  calls  '  lights/  'tis  what  you  calls  '  lungs.'  " 

The  doctor  turned  sadly  to  the  maid. 

"  I  been  takin'  shot,  zur,  t'  weight  un  down,"  she 
went  on  ;  "  but,  zur,  'tis  no  use,  at  all.  An'  Jim 
Butt's  my  man,"  she  added,  hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I'm  t'  be  married  to  un  when  he  comes  up  from  the 
Narth.  Does  you  think " 

She  paused — in  embarrassment,  perhaps :  for  it 
may  be  that  it  was  the  great  hope  of  this  maid,  as  it 
is  of  all  true  women  of  our  coast,  to  live  to  be  the 
mother  of  sons. 

"  Go  on,"  the  doctor  quietly  said. 

"  Oh,  does  you  think,  zur,"  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands,  a  sob  in  her  voice,  "  that  you  can  cure  me — 
afore  the  fleet — gets  home  ?  " 


170      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Davy,"  said  the  doctor,  hoarsely,  "  go  to  your 
sister.     I  must  have  a  word  with  this  maid — alone." 
I  went  away. 

We  caught  sight  of  the  Word  of  the  Lord  beating 
down  from  the  south  in  light  winds — and  guessed  her 
errand — long  before  that  trim  little  schooner  dropped 
anchor  in  the  basin.  The  skipper  came  ashore  for 
healing  of  an  angry  abscess  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
Could  the  doctor  cure  it  ?  To  be  sure — the  doctor 
could  do  that!  The  man  had  suffered  sleepless 
agony  for  five  days  ;  he  was  glad  that  the  doctor 
could  ease  his  pain — glad  that  he  was  soon  again 
to  be  at  the  fishing.  Thank  God,  he  was  to  be 
cured ! 

"  I  have  only  to  lance  and  dress  it,"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "  You  will  have  relief  at  once." 

"  Not  the  knife,"  the  skipper  groaned.  "  Praise 
God,  I'll  not  have  the  knife  !  " 

It  was  the  doctor's  first  conflict  with  the  strange 
doctrines  of  our  coast.  I  still  behold — as  I  lift  my 
eyes  from  the  page — his  astonishment  when  he  was 
sternly  informed  that  the  way  of  the  Lord  was  not 
the  way  of  a  surgeon  with  a  knife.  Nor  was  the 
austere  old  fellow  to  be  moved.  The  lance,  said  he, 
was  an  invention  of  the  devil  himself — its  use  plainly 
a  defiance  of  the  purposes  of  the  Creator.  Thank 


HARD    PRACTICE  171 

God  !  he  had  been  reared  by  a  Christian  father  of  the 
old  school. 

"  No,  no,  doctor ! "  he  declared,  his  face  con 
torted  by  pain.  "  I'm  thankin'  you  kindly ;  but 
I'm  not  carin'  t'  interfere  with  the  decrees  o'  Provi 
dence." 

"  But,  man,"  cried  the  doctor,  "  I  must " 

"  No  !  "  doggedly.  "  I'll  not  stand  in  the  Lard's 
way.  If  'tis  His  will  for  me  t'  get  better,  I'll  get  bet 
ter,  I  s'pose.  If  'tis  His  blessed  will  for  me  t'  die," 
he  added,  reverently,  "  I'll  have  t'  die." 

"  I  give  you  my  word,"  said  the  doctor,  impa 
tiently,  "  that  if  that  hand  is  not  lanced  you'll  be 
dead  in  three  days." 

The  man  looked  off  to  his  schooner. 

"  Three  days,"  the  doctor  repeated. 

"  I'm  wonderful  sorry,"  sighed  the  skipper,  "  but 
I  got  t'  stand  by  the  Lard." 

And  he  was  dead — within  three  days,  as  we  after 
wards  learned  :  even  as  the  doctor  had  said. 

Once,  when  the  doctor  was  off  in  haste  to  Cuddy 
Cove  to  save  the  life  of  a  mother  of  seven — the  Cuddy 
Cove  men  had  without  a  moment's  respite  pulled 
twelve  miles  against  a  switch  of  wind  from  the  north 
and  were  streaming  sweat  when  they  landed — once, 
when  the  doctor  was  thus  about  his  beneficent  busi- 


172      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

ness,  a  woman  from  Bowsprit  Head  brought  her 
child  to  be  cured,  incredulous  of  the  physician's 
power,  but  yet  desperately  seeking,  as  mothers  will. 
She  came  timidly — her  ailing  child  on  her  bosom, 
where,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  it  had  lain  complaining 
since  she  gave  it  birth. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  he'll  die,"  she  told  my  sister. 

My  sister  cried  out  against  this  hopelessness. 
'Twas  not  kind  to  the  dear  Lord,  said  she,  thus  to 
despair. 

"  They  says  t'  Bowsprit  Head,"  the  woman  per 
sisted,  "  that  he'll  die  in  a  fit.  I'm — I'm — not  wantin' 
him,"  she  faltered,  "  t'  die — like  that." 

"  No,  no  !     He'll  not !  " 

She  hushed  the  child  in  a  mechanical  way — being 
none  the  less  tender  and  patient  the  while — as 
though  her  arms  were  long  accustomed  to  the  bur 
den,  her  heart  used  to  the  pain. 

"  There  haven't  ever  been  no  child,"  said  she, 
looking  up,  after  a  moment,  "  like  this — afore — t' 
Bowsprit  Head." 

My  sister  was  silent. 

"  No,"  the  woman  sighed  ;  "  not  like  this  one." 

"  Come,  come,  ma'm ! "  I  put  in,  confidently. 
"  Do  you  leave  un  t'  the  doctor.  He  II  cure  un." 

She  looked  at  me  quickly.  "  What  say  ?  "  she 
said,  as  though  she  had  not  understood. 


HARD    PRACTICE  173 

"  I  says,"  I  repeated,  "  that  the  doctor  will  cure 
that  one." 

"  Cure  un  ?  "  she  asked,  blankly. 

"  That  he  will !  " 

She  smiled — and  looked  up  to  the  sky,  smiling 
still,  while  she  pressed  the  infant  to  her  breast. 
"  They  isn't  nobody,"  she  whispered,  "  not  nobody, 
ever  said  that — afore — about  my  baby  !  " 

Next  morning  we  sat  her  on  the  platform  to  wait 
for  the  doctor,  who  had  now  been  gone  three  days. 
"  He  does  better  in  the  air,"  said  she.  "  He — he — 
needs  air  !  "  It  was  melancholy  weather — thick  fog, 
with  a  drizzle  of  rain  :  the  wind  in  the  east,  fretful 
and  cold.  All  morning  long  she  rocked  the  child  in 
her  arms :  now  softly  singing  to  him — now  vainly 
seeking  to  win  a  smile — now  staring  vacantly  into 
the  mist,  dreaming  dull  dreams,  while  he  lay  in  her 
lap. 

"  He  isn't  come  through  the  tickle,  have  he  ?  "  she 
asked,  when  I  came  up  from  the  shop  at  noon. 

"  He've  not  been  sighted  yet." 

"  I'm  thinkin'  he'll  be  comin'  soon." 

"  Ay  ;  you'll  not  have  t'  wait  much  longer." 

"  I'm  not  mindin'  that"  said  she,  "  for  I'm  used  t' 
waitin'." 

The  doctor  came  in  from  the  sea  at  evening — 
when  the  wind  had  freshened  to  a  gale,  blowing  bit- 


174      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

ter  cold.  He  had  been  for  three  days  and  nights 
fighting  without  sleep  for  the  life  of  that  mother  of 
seven — and  had  won  !  Ay,  she  had  pulled  through  ; 
she  was  now  resting  in  the  practiced  care  of  the 
Cuddy  Cove  women,  whose  knowledge  of  such 
things  had  been  generously  increased.  The  ragged, 
sturdy  seven  still  had  a  mother  to  love  and  counsel 
them.  The  Cuddy  Cove  men  spoke  reverently  of 
the  deed  and  the  man  who  had  done  it.  Tired  ? 
The  doctor  laughed.  Not  he  !  Why,  he  had  been 
asleep  under  a  tarpaulin  all  the  way  from  Cuddy 
Cove  !  And  Skipper  Elisha  Timbertight  had  handled 
the  skiff  in  the  high  seas  so  cleverly,  so  tenderly,  so 
watchfully — what  a  marvellous  hand  it  was  ! — that 
the  man  under  the  tarpaulin  had  not  been  awakened 
until  the  nose  of  the  boat  touched  the  wharf  piles. 
But  the  doctor  was  hollow-eyed  and  hoarse,  stagger 
ing  of  weariness,  but  cheerfully  smiling,  as  he  went 
up  the  path  to  talk  with  the  woman  from  Bowsprit 
Head. 

"  You  are  waiting  for  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  was  frightened — by  his  accent,  his  soft  voice, 
his  gentle  manner,  to  which  the  women  of  our  coast 
are  not  used.  But  she  managed  to  stammer  that  her 
baby  was  sick. 

"  'Tis  his  throat,"  she  added. 

The   child  was    noisily  fighting   for  breath.     He 


HARD    PRACTICE  175 

gasped,  writhed  in  her  lap,  struggled  desperately  for 
air,  and,  at  last,  lay  panting.  She  exposed  him  to 
the  doctor's  gaze — a  dull-eyed,  scrawny,  ugly  babe  : 
such  as  mothers  wish  to  hide  from  sight. 

"  He've  always  been  like  that,"  she  said.  "  He's 
wonderful  sick.  I've  fetched  un  here  t'  be  cured." 

"  A  pretty  child,"  said  the  doctor. 

'Twas  a  wondrous  kind  lie — told  with  such  per 
fect  dissimulation  that  it  carried  the  conviction  of 
truth. 

"  What  say?  "  she  asked,  leaning  forward. 

"  A  pretty  child,"  the  doctor  repeated,  very  dis 
tinctly. 

"  They  don't  say  that  t'  Bowsprit  Head,  zur." 

"Well— /say  it!" 

"  I'll  tell  un  so !  "  she  exclaimed,  joyfully.  "  I'll 
tell  un  you  said  so,  zur,  when  I  gets  back  t'  Bowsprit 
Head.  For  nobody — nobody,  zur — ever  said  that 
afore — about  my  baby  !  " 

The  child  stirred  and  complained.  She  lifted  him 
from  her  lap — rocked  him — hushed  him — drew  him 
close,  rocking  him  all  the  time. 

"  Have  you  another  ?  " 

"  No,  zur ;  'tis  me  first." 

"  And  does  he  talk  ?  "  the  doctor  asked. 

She  looked  up — in  a  glow  of  pride.  And  she 
flushed  gloriously  while  she  turned  her  eyes  once 


176      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

more  upon  the  gasping,  ill-featured  babe  upon  her 
breast. 

"  He  said  '  mama ' — once  !  "  she  answered. 

In  the  fog — far,  far  away,  in  the  distances  beyond 
Skull  Island,  which  were  hidden — the  doctor  found 
at  that  moment  some  strange  interest. 

"  Once  ?  "  he  asked,  his  face  still  turned  away. 

"  Ay,  zur,"  she  solemnly  declared.  "  I  calls  my 
God  t'  witness !  I'm  not  makin'  believe,  zur,"  she 
went  on,  with  rising  excitement.  "  They  says  t' 
Bowsprit  Head  that  I  dreamed  it,  zur,  but  I  knows  I 
didn't.  'Twas  at  the  dawn.  He  lay  here,  zur — here, 
zur — on  me  breast.  I  was  wide  awake,  zur — waitin' 
for  the  day.  Oh,  he  said  it,  zur,"  she  cried,  crushing 
the  child  to  her  bosom.  "  I  heared  un  say  it ! 
'  Mama ! '  says  he." 

"  When  I  have  cured  him,"  said  the  doctor, 
gently,  "  he  will  say  more  than  that." 

"  What  say  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  When  I  have  taken — something — out  of  his 
throat — with  my  knife — he  will  be  able  to  say  much 
more  than  that.  When  he  has  grown  a  little  older, 
he  will  say, '  Mama,  I  loves  you  ! ' ' 

The  woman  began  to  cry. 

There  is  virtue  for  the  city-bred,  I  fancy,  in  the 
clean  salt  air  and  simple  living  of  our  coast — and, 


HARD    PRACTICE  177 

surely,  for  every  one,  everywhere,  a  tonic  in  the  per 
formance  of  good  deeds.  Hard  practice  in  fair  and 
foul  weather  worked  a  vast  change  in  the  doctor. 
Toil  and  fresh  air  are  eminent  physicians.  The  won 
der  of  salty  wind  and  the  hand-to-hand  conflict  with  a 
northern  sea  !  They  gave  him  health,  a  clear-eyed, 
brown,  deep-breathed  sort  of  health,  and  restored  a 
strength,  broad-shouldered  and  lithe  and  playful,  that 
was  his  natural  heritage.  With  this  new  power  came 
joyous  courage,  indomitability  of  purpose,  a  restless 
activity  of  body  and  mind.  He  no  longer  carried  the 
suggestion  of  a  wrecked  ship  ;  however  afflicted  his 
soul  may  still  have  been,  he  was  now,  in  manly 
qualities,  the  man  the  good  God  designed — strong  and 
bonnie  and  tender-hearted  :  betraying  no  weakness 
in  the  duties  of  the  day.  His  plans  shot  far  beyond 
our  narrow  prospect,  shaming  our  blindness  and 
timidity,  when  he  disclosed  them  ;  and  his  interests — 
searching,  insatiable,  reflective — comprehended  all 
that  touched  our  work  and  way  of  life  :  so  that,  as 
Tom  Tot  was  moved  to  exclaim,  by  way  of  an  ex 
plosion  of  amazement,  'twas  not  long  before  he  had 
mastered  the  fish  business,  gill,  fin  and  liver.  And 
he  went  about  with  hearty  words  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  and  a  laugh  in  his  gray  eyes — merry  the  day 
long,  whatever  the  fortune  of  it.  The  children  ran 
out  of  the  cottages  to  greet  him  as  he  passed  by,  and 


178      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

a  multitude  of  surly,  ill-conditioned  dogs,  which 
yielded  the  road  to  no  one  else,  accepted  him  as  a 
distinguished  intimate.  But  still,  and  often — late  in 
the  night — my  sister  and  I  lay  awake  listening  to  the 
disquieting  fall  of  his  feet  as  he  paced  his  bedroom 
floor.  And  sometimes  I  crept  to  his  door — and 
hearkened — and  came  away,  sad  that  I  had  gone. 

When — autumn  being  come  with  raw  winds  and 
darkened  days — the  doctor  said  that  he  must  go  an 
errand  south  to  St.  John's  and  the  Canadian  cities  be 
fore  winter  settled  upon  our  coast,  I  was  beset 
by  melancholy  fears  that  he  would  not  return,  but, 
enamoured  anew  of  the  glories  of  those  storied 
harbours,  would  abandon  us,  though  we  had  come  to 
love  him,  with  all  our  hearts.  Skipper  Tommy  Love- 
joy  joined  with  my  sister  to  persuade  me  out  of  these 
drear  fancies  :  which  (said  they)  were  ill-conceived ; 
for  the  doctor  must  depart  a  little  while,  else  our 
plans  for  the  new  sloop  and  little  hospital  (and 
our  defense  against  Jagger)  would  go  all  awry. 
Perceiving,  then,  that  I  would  not  be  convinced,  the 
doctor  took  me  walking  on  the  bald  old  Watch 
man,  and  there  shamed  me  for  mistrusting  him  :  say 
ing,  afterwards,  that  though  it  might  puzzle  our 
harbour  and  utterly  confound  his  greater  world,  which 
must  now  be  informed,  he  had  in  truth  cast  his 


HARD    PRACTICE  179 

lot  with  us,  for  good  and  all,  counting  his  fortune  a 
happy  one,  thus  to  come  at  last  to  a  little  corner 
of  the  world  where  good  impulses,  elsewhere  scrawny 
and  disregarded,  now  flourished  lustily  in  his  heart. 
Then  with  delight  I  said  that  I  would  fly  the  big  flag 
in  welcome  when  the  returning  mail-boat  came  puffing 
through  the  Gate.  And  scampering  down  the  Watch 
man  went  the  doctor  and  I,  hand  in  hand,  mistrust 
fled,  to  the  very  threshold  of  my  father's  house, 
where  my  sister  waited,  smiling  to  know  that  all 
went  well  again. 

Past  ten  o'clock  of  a  dismal  night  we  sat  waiting 
for  the  mail-boat — unstrung  by  anxious  expectation  : 
made  wretched  by  the  sadness  of  the  parting. 

"  There  she  blows,  zur  ! "  cried  Skipper  Tommy, 
jumping  up.  "  We'd  best  get  aboard  smartly,  zur, 
for  she'll  never  come  through  the  Gate  this  dirty 
night." 

The  doctor  rose,  and  looked,  for  a  strained,  silent 
moment,  upon  my  dear  sister,  but  with  what  emotion, 
though  it  sounded  the  deeps  of  passion,  I  could  not 
then  conjecture.  He  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his, 
and  held  it  tight,  without  speaking.  She  tried,  dear 
heart !  to  meet  his  ardent  eyes — but  could  not. 

"  I'm  wishin'  you  a  fine  voyage,  zur,"  she  said,  her 
voice  fallen  to  a  tremulous  whisper. 

He  kissed  the  hand  he  held. 


i8o      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  T  the  south,"  she  added,  with  a  swift,  wondering 
look  into  his  eyes,  "  an'  back." 

"  Child,"  he  began  with  feeling,  "  I " 

In  some  strange  passion  my  sister  stepped  from 
him.  "  Call  me  that  no  more  !  "  she  cried,  her  voice 
broken,  her  eyes  wide  and  moist,  her  little  hands 
clinched. 

"  Why,  child !  "  the  doctor  exclaimed.     "  I  - 

"  I'm  not  a  child  !  " 

The  doctor  turned  helplessly  to  me — and  I  in  be 
wilderment  to  my  sister — to  whom,  again,  the  doctor 
extended  his  hands,  but  now  with  a  frank  smile,  as 
though  understanding  that  which  still  puzzled  me. 

"  Sister "  said  he. 

"  No,  no !  " 

'Twas  my  nature,  it  may  be,  then  to  have  inter 
vened  ;  but  I  was  mystified  and  afraid — and  felt  the 
play  of  some  great  force,  unknown  and  dreadful, 
which  had  inevitably  cut  my  sister  off  from  me,  her 
brother,  keeping  her  alone  and  helpless  in  the  midst 
of  it — and  I  quailed  and  kept  silent. 

"  Bessie  !  " 

She  took  his  hand.  "  Good-bye,  zur,"  she 
whispered,  turning  away,  flushed. 

"  Good-bye  ! " 

The  doctor  went  out,  with  a  new  mark  upon  him ; 
and  I  followed,  still  silent,  thinking  it  a  poor  farewell 


HARD   PRACTICE  181 

my  sister  had  given  him,  but  yet  divining,  serenely, 
that  all  this  was  beyond  the  knowledge  of  lads.  I 
did  not  know,  when  I  bade  the  doctor  farewell 
and  Godspeed,  that  his  heart  tasted  such  bitterness 
as,  God  grant !  the  hearts  of  men  do  seldom  feel,  and 
that,  nobility  asserting  itself,  he  had  determined 
never  again  to  return  :  fearing  to  bring  my  sister  the 
unhappiness  of  love,  rather  than  the  joy  of  it.  When 
I  had  put  him  safe  aboard,  I  went  back  to  the  house, 
where  I  found  my  sister  sorely  weeping — not  for 
herself,  she  sobbed,  but  for  him,  whom  she  had 
wounded. 


XVIII 
SKIPPER  TOMMY  GETS  A  LETTER 

IT  came  from  the  north,  addressed,  in  pale,  sprawl 
ing  characters,  to  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  of 
our  harbour — a  crumpled,  greasy,  ill-odoured  mis 
sive  :  little  enough  like  a  letter  from  a  lady,  bearing 
(as  we  supposed)  a  coy  appeal  to  the  tender  passion. 
But 

"  Ay,  Davy,"  my  sister  insisted.  "  Tis  from  she. 
Smell  it  for  yourself." 

I  sniffed  the  letter. 

"  Eh,  Davy  ?  " 

"  Well,  Bessie,"  I  answered,  doubtfully,  "  I'm  not 
able  t'  call  t"  mind  this  minute  just  how  she  did.  But 
I'm  free  t'  say,"  regarding  the  streaks  and  thumb-marks 
with  quick  disfavour,  "  that  it  looks  a  lot  like  her." 

My  sister  smiled  upon  me  with  an  air  of  loftiest 
superiority.  "  Smell  it  again,"  said  she. 

"  Well,"  I  admitted,  after  sniffing  long  and  care 
fully,  "  I  does  seem  t'  have  got  wind  o'- 

"  There's  no  deceivin'  a  woman's  nose,"  my  sister 
declared,  positively.  "  Tis  a  letter  from  the  woman 
t'  Wolf  Cove." 

182 


SKIPPER  TOMMY  GETS  A  LETTER      183 

"  Then,"  said  I,  with  a  frown,  "  we'd  best  burn 
it." 

She  mused  a  moment.  "  He  never  got  a  letter 
afore,"  she  said,  looking  up. 

"  Not  many  folk  has,"  I  objected. 
,      "  He'd  be  wonderful  proud,"  she  continued,  "  o' 
just  gettin'  a  letter." 

"  But  she's  a  wily  woman,"  I  protested,  in  warning, 
"  an'  he's  a  most  obligin'  man.  I  fair  shiver  t'  think 
o'  leadin'  un  into  temptation." 

"  'Twould  do  no  harm,  Davy,"  said  she,  "  just  t' 
show  un  the  letter." 

"  'Tis  a  fearful  responsibility  t'  take." 

"  'Twould  please  un  so !  "  she  wheedled. 

"  Ah,  well !  "  I  sighed.  "  You're  a  wonderful  hand 
at  gettin'  your  own  way,  Bessie." 

When  the  punts  of  our  folk  came  sweeping  through 
the  tickles  and  the  Gate,  in  the  twilight  of  that  day,  I 
went  with  the  letter  to  the  Rat  Hole  :  knowing  that 
Skipper  Tommy  would  by  that  time  be  in  from  the 
Hook-an'-Line  grounds ;  for  the  wind  was  blowing 
fair  from  that  quarter.  I  found  the  twins  pitching 
the  catch  into  the  stage,  with  great  hilarity — a  joy 
ous,  frolicsome  pair  :  in  happy  ignorance  of  what  im 
pended.  They  gave  me  jolly  greeting  :  whereupon, 
feeling  woefully  guilty,  I  sought  the  skipper  in  the 


1 84      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

house,  where  he  had  gone  (they  said)  to  get  out  of 
his  sea-boots. 

I  was  not  disposed  to  dodge  the  issue.  "  Skip 
per  Tommy,"  said  I,  bluntly,  "  I  got  a  letter  for 
you." 

He  stared. 

"  Tis  no  joke,"  said  I,  with  a  wag,  "  as  you'll  find, 
when  you  gets  t'  know  where  'tis  from;  but  'tis 
nothin'  t'  be  scared  of." 

"  Was  you  sayin',  Davy,"  he  began,  at  last,  trailing 
off  into  the  silence  of  utter  amazement,  "  that  you — 
been — gettin' — a 

"  I  was  sayin',"  I  answered, "  that  the  mail-boat  left 
you  a  letter." 

He  came  close.  "  Was  you  sayin',"  he  whispered 
in  my  ear,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  to  the  north,  "  that 
'tis  from " 

I  nodded. 

«  She  f  " 

"  Ay." 

He  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek — and  gave  me  a 
slow,  sly  wink.  "  Ecod  !  "  said  he. 

I  was  then  mystified  by  his  strange  behaviour : 
this  occurring  while  he  made  ready  for  the  splitting- 
table.  He  chuckled,  he  tweaked  his  long  nose  until 
it  flared,  he  scratched  his  head,  he  sighed,  he  scowled, 
he  broke  into  vociferous  laughter ;  and  he  muttered 


SKIPPER  TOMMY  GETS  A  LETTER      185 

"  Ecod  !  "  an  innumerable  number  of  times,  voicing, 
thereby,  the  gamut  of  human  emotions  and  the  de 
grees  thereof,  from  lowest  melancholy  to  a  crafty  sort 
of  cynicism  and  thence  to  the  height  of  smug  elation. 
And,  presently,  when  he  had  peered  down  the  path 
to  the  stage,  where  the  twins  were  forking  the  fish,  he 
approached,  stepping  mysteriously,  his  gigantic  fore 
finger  raised  in  a  caution  to  hush. 

"  Davy,"  he  whispered,  "  you  isn't  got  that  letter 
aboard  o'  you,  is  you  ?  " 

My  heart  misgave  me  ;  but — I  nodded. 

"  Well,  well !  "  cried  he.  "  I'm  thinkin',"  he  added, 
his  surprise  somewhat  mitigated  by  curiosity,  "  that 
you'll  be  havin'  it  in  your  jacket  pocket." 

"  Ay,"  was  my  sharp  reply  ;  "  but  I'll  not  read  it." 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  he,  severely,  lifting  a  protesting 
hand,  which  he  had  now  encased  in  a  reeking  split- 
ting-mit.  "  I'd  not  have  you  read  it.  Sure,  I'd  never 
'low  that !  Was  you  thinkin',  David  Roth,"  now  so 
reproachfully  that  my  doubts  seemed  treasonable, 
"  that  I'd  want  you  to  ?  Me — that  nibbled  once  ? 
Not  I,  lad  !  But  as  you  does  happen  t'  have  that  let 
ter  in  your  jacket,  you  wouldn't  mind  me  just  takin' 
a  look  at  it,  would  you  ?  " 

I  produced  the  crumpled  missive — with  a  sigh  : 
for  the  skipper's  drift  was  apparent. 

"  My  letter !  "  said  he,  gazing  raptly.     "  Davy,  lad, 


1 86      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

I'd  kind  o' — like  t' — just  'C—fccl  it.  They  wouldn't 
be  no  hurt  in  me  Jwlditi  it,  would  they  ?  " 

I  passed  it  over. 

"  Now,  Davy,"  he  declared,  his  head  on  one  side, 
the  letter  held  gingerly  before  him,  "  I  wouldn't  read 
that  letter  an  I  could.  No,  lad — not  an  I  could  ! 
But  I've  heared  tell  she  had  a  deal  o'  1'arnin' ;  an'  I'd 
kind  o' — like  t' — take  a  peek  inside.  Just,"  he  added, 
hurriedly,  "  t'  see  what  power  she  had  for  writin'." 

This  pretense  to  a  purely  artistic  interest  in  the 
production  was  wondrously  trying  to  the  patience. 

"  Skipper  Davy,"  he  went  on,  awkwardly,  skipper 
ing  me  with  a  guile  that  was  shameless, "  it  bein'  from 
a  woman — bein'  from  a  woman,  now,  says  I — 'twould 
be  no  more  'n  po-lite  t'  open  it.  Come,  now,  Davy !  " 
he  challenged.  "  You  wouldn't  say  'twould  be  more 
'n  po-lite,  would  you  ?  It  bein'  from  a  lone  woman  ?  " 

I  made  no  answer :  for,  at  that  moment,  I  caught 
sight  of  the  twins,  listening  with  open-mouthed  inter 
est  from  the  threshold. 

"  I  wonders,  Davy,"  the  skipper  confided,  taking 
the  leap,  at  last,  "  what  she've  gone  an'  writ !  " 

"  Jacky,"  I  burst  out,  in  disgust,  turning  to  the 
twins,  "  I  just  knowed  he'd  get  t'  wonderin' !  " 

Skipper  Tommy  started :  he  grew  shamefaced,  all 
in  a  moment ;  and  he  seemed  now  first  conscious  of 
guilty  wishes. 


SKIPPER  TOMMY  GETS  A  LETTER      187 

"  Timmie,"  said  Jacky,  hoarsely,  from  the  doorway, 
"  she've  writ." 

"  Ay,  Jacky,"  Timmie  echoed,  "  she've  certain  gone 
an'  done  it." 

They  entered. 

"  I  been — sort  o' — gettin'  a  letter,  lads,"  the  skipper 
stammered  :  a  hint  of  pride  in  his  manner.  "  It  come 
ashore,"  he  added,  with  importance,  "  from  the  mail- 
boat." 

"  Dad,"  Timmie  asked,  sorrowfully,  "  is  you  been 
askin'  Davy  t'  read  that  letter  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  Timmie,"  the  skipper  drawled,  tweaking 
his  nose ;  "  'tisn't  quite  so  bad.  But  I  been  won- 
derin' ' 

"  Oh,  is  you  !  "  Jacky  broke  in.  "  Timmie,"  said 
he,  grinning,  "  dad's  been  wonderin1 ! " 

"  Is  he  ? "  Timmie  asked,  assuming  innocence. 
"  Wonderin'  ?  " 

"  Wasn't  you  sayin'  so,  dad  ?  " 

"  Well,"  the  skipper  admitted,  "  havin'  said  so,  I'll 
not  gainsay  it.  I  was  wonderin' " 

"  An'  you  knowiri  "  sighed  Timmie,  "  that  you're 
an  obligin'  man  ! " 

"  Dad,"  Jacky  demanded,  "  didn't  the  Lard  kindly 
send  a  switch  o'  wind  from  the  sou'east  t'  save  you 
oncet  ?  " 

The  skipper  blushed  uneasily. 


1 88      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Does  you  think,"  Timmie  pursued,  "  that  He'll 
turn  His  hand  again  t'  save  you  ?  " 

"Well " 

"  Look  you,  dad,"  said  Jacky,  "  isn't  you  got  in 
trouble  enough  all  along  o'  wonderin'  too  much  ?  " 

"  Well,"  the  skipper  exclaimed,  badgered  into  self- 
assertion,  "  I  -was  wonderin' ;  but  since  you  two  lads 
come  in  I  been  thinkiri.  Since  them  two  twins  o' 
mine  come  in,  Davy,"  he  repeated,  turning  to  me,  his 
eyes  sparkling  with  fatherly  affection, "  I  been  thinkin' 
'twould  be  a  fine  plan  t'  tack  this  letter  t'  the  wall  for 
a  warnin'  t'  the  household  agin  the  wiles  o'  women ! " 

Timmie  and  Jacky  silently  embraced — containing 
their  delight  as  best  they  could,  though  it  pained  them. 

"  Not,"  the  skipper  continued,  "  that  I'll  have  a 
word  said  agin'  that  woman  :  which  I  won't,"  said  he, 
"nor  no  other.  The  Lard  knowed  what  He  was 
about.  He  made  them  with  His  own  hands,  an'  if 
He  was  willin'  t'  take  the  responsibility,  us  men  can 
do  no  less  than  stand  by  an'  weather  it  out.  'Tis  my 
own  idea  that  He  was  more  sot  on  fine  lines  than 
sailin'  qualities  when  He  whittled  His  model.  '  I'll 
make  a  craft,'  says  He, '  for  looks,  an'  I'll  pay  no 
heed,'  says  He, '  t'  the  cranks  she  may  have,  hopin' 
for  the  best.'  An' He  done  it!  That  He  did!  They're 
tidy  craft — oh,  ay,  they're  wonderful  tidy  craft — but 
'tis  Lard  help  un  in  a  gale  o'  wind !  An'  the  Lard 


SKIPPER  TOMMY  GETS  A  LETTER      189 

made  she"  he  continued,  reverting  to  the  woman 
from  Wolf  Cove,  "  after  her  kind,  a  woman,  acquaint 
with  the  wiles  o'  women,  actin'  accordin'  t'  nature 
An',"  he  declared,  irrelevantly,  "  'tis  gettin'  close  t' 
winter,  an'  'twould  be  comfortable  t'  have  a  man  t' 
tend  the  fires.  She  do  be  of  a  designin'  turn  o'  mind," 
he  proceeded,  "  which  is  accordin'  t'  the  nature  o' 
women,  puttin'  no  blame  on  her,  an'  she's  not  a  won 
derful  lot  for  looks  an'  temper;  but,"  impressively 
lifting  his  hand,  voice  and  manner  awed,  "  she've 
1'arnin',  which  is  ek'al  t'  looks,  if  not  t'  temper.  So," 
said  he,  "  we'll  say  nothin'  agin'  her,  but  just  tack  this 
letter  t'  the  wall,  an'  go  split  the  fish.  But,"  when  the 
letter  had  thus  been  disposed  of,  "  I  wonder 
what " 

"  Come  on,  dad !  " 

He  put  an  arm  around  each  of  the  grinning  twins, 
and  Timmie  put  an  arm  around  me;  and  thus  we 
went  pell-mell  down  to  the  stage,  where  we  had  an 
uproarious  time  splitting  the  day's  catch. 

You  must  know,  now,  that  all  this  time  we  had 
been  busy  with  the  fish,  dawn  to  dark  ;  that  beyond 
our  little  lives,  while,  intent  upon  their  small  concerns, 
we  lived  them,  a  great  and  lovely  work  was  wrought 
upon  our  barren  coast :  as  every  year,  unfailingly,  to 
the  glory  of  God,  who  made  such  hearts  as  beat  under 


190      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

the  brown,  hairy  breasts  of  our  men.  From  the  Strait 
to  Chidley,  our  folk  and  their  kin  from  Newfoundland 
with  hook  and  net  reaped  the  harvest  from  the  sea — 
a  vast,  sullen  sea,  unwilling  to  yield :  sourly  striving 
to  withhold  the  good  Lord's  bounty  from  the  stout 
and  merry  fellows  who  had  with  lively  courage  put 
out  to  gather  it.  'Twas  catch  and  split  and  stow 
away !  In  the  dawn  of  stormy  days  and  sunny  ones 
— contemptuous  of  the  gray  wind  and  reaching  seas — 
the  skiffs  came  and  went.  From  headland  to  head 
land — dodging  the  reefs,  escaping  the  shifting  peril  of 
ice,  outwitting  the  drifting  mists — little  schooners 
chased  the  fish.  Wave  and  rock  and  wind  and  bergs 
— separate  dangers,  allied  with  night  and  fog  and 
sleety  rain — were  blithely  encountered.  Sometimes, 
to  be  sure,  they  wreaked  their  purpose ;  but,  notwith 
standing,  day  by  day  the  schooners  sailed  and  the 
skiffs  put  out  to  the  open,  and  fish  were  cheerily  taken 
from  the  sea.  Spite  of  all,  the  splitting-knives  flashed, 
and  torches  flared  on  the  decks  and  in  the  mud  huts 
ashore.  Barren  hills — the  bleak  and  uninhabited 
places  of  the  northern  coast — for  a  season  reflected 
the  lurid  glow  and  echoed  the  song  and  shout. 
Thanks  be  to  God,  the  fleet  was  loading ! 

In  the  drear  autumn  weather  a  cloud  of  sail  went 
to  the  s'uth'ard  —  doughty  little  schooners,  decks 
awash  :  beating  up  to  the  home  ports. 


XIX 
The  FATE  of  The  MAIL-BOAT  DOCTOR 

MY  flag  flapped  a  welcome  in  the  sunny 
wind  as  the  mail-boat  came  creeping 
through  the  Gate  and  with  a  great  rattle 
and  splatter  dropped  anchor  in  the  basin  off  my 
father's  wharf:  for  through  my  father's  long  glass  I 
had  from  the  summit  of  the  Watchman  long  before 
spied  the  doctor  aboard.  He  landed  in  fine  fettle — 
clear-eyed,  smiling,  quick  to  extend  his  strong,  warm 
hand  :  having  cheery  words  for  the  folk  ashore,  and 
eager,  homesick  glances  for  the  bleak  hills  of  our  har 
bour.  Ecod  !  but  he  was  splendidly  glad  to  be  home. 
I  had  as  lief  fall  into  the  arms  of  a  black  bear  as  ever 
again  to  be  greeted  in  a  way  so  careless  of  my  breath 
and  bones  !  But,  at  last,  with  a  joyous  little  laugh, 
he  left  me  to  gasp  myself  to  life  again,  and  went 
bounding  up  the  path.  I  managed  to  catch  my 
wind  in  time  to  follow  ;  'twas  in  my  mind  to  spy  upon 
his  meeting  with  my  sister  ;  nor  would  I  be  thwarted  : 
for  I  had  for  many  days  been  troubled  by  what  hap 
pened  when  they  parted,  and  now  heartily  wished 
the  unhappy  difference  forgot.  So  from  a  corner  of 

191 


192 

the  hillside  flake  I  watched  lynx-eyed  ;  but  I  could 
detect  nothing  amiss — no  hint  of  ill-feeling  or  re 
serve  :  only  frank  gladness  in  smile  and  glance  and 
handclasp.  And  being  well  content  with  this,  I  went 
back  to  the  wharf  to  lend  Tom  Tot  a  hand  with  the 
landing  of  the  winter  supplies,  the  medical  stores,  the 
outfit  for  the  projected  sloop :  all  of  which  the 
doctor  had  brought  with  him  from  St.  John's. 

"  And  not  only  that,"  said  the  doctor,  that  night, 
concluding  his  narrative  of  busy  days  in  the  city, 
"  but  I  have  been  appointed,"  with  a  great  affectation 
of  pomposity,  "  the  magistrate  for  this  district !  " 

We  were  not  impressed.  "  The  magistrate  ?  "  I 
mused.  "  What's  that  ?  " 

"  What's  a  magistrate  !  "  cried  he. 

"  Ay,"  said  I.     "  I  never  seed  one." 

"  The  man  who  enforces  the  law,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"  The  law  ?  "  said  I.     "  What's  that  ?  " 

"  The   law   of  the   land,   Davy,"  he   began,  near 

dumbfounded,  "  is  for  the ' 

My  sister  got  suddenly  much  excited.  "  I've 
heard  tell  about  magistrates,"  she  interrupted,  speak 
ing  eagerly,  the  light  dancing  merrily  in  her  eyes. 
"  Come,  tell  me  !  is  they  able  t'  - 

She  stuttered  to  a  full  stop,  blushing.  "  Out  with 
it,  my  dear,"  said  I. 


The  FATE  of  The  MAIL-BOAT  DOCTOR    193 

"  Marry  folk  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  They  may,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Oh,  Davy  !  " 

"  Whoop  !  "  screamed  I,  leaping  up.  "  You're 
never  tellin'  me  that !  Quick,  Bessie  !  Come,  doc 
tor  !  They  been  waitin'  this  twenty  year." 

I  caught  his  right  hand,  Bessie  his  left ;  and  out 
we  dragged  him,  paying  no  heed  to  his  questions, 
which,  by  and  by,  he  abandoned,  because  he  laughed 
so  hard.  And  down  the  path  we  sped — along  the 
road — by  the  turn  to  Cut-Throat  Cove — until,  at 
last,  we  came  to  the  cottage  of  Aunt  Amanda  and 
Uncle  Joe  Bow,  whom  we  threw  into  a  fluster  with 
our  news.  When  the  doctor  was  informed  of  the 
exigency  of  the  situation,  he  married  them  on  the 
spot,  improvising  a  ceremony,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  as  though  he  had  been  used  to  it  all  his 
life  :  a  family  of  six  meanwhile  grinning  with  delight 
and  embarrassment. 

"  You  sees,  zur,"  Uncle  Joe  explained,  when  'twas 
over,  "  we  never  had  no  chance  afore.  'Manda  an' 
me  was  down  narth  when  the  last  parson  come  this 
way.  An'  'Manda  she've  been  wantin' " 

"  T'  have  it  done,"  Aunt  Amanda  put  in,  patting 
the  curly  head  of  the  smallest  Bow,  "  afore " 

"  Ay,"  said  Uncle  Joe,  "  wantin'  t'  have  it  done, 
shipshape,  afore  she " 


194      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  7 'he  LABRADOR 

"  Died,"  Aunt  Amanda  concluded. 

By  this  time  the  amazing  news  had  spread.  Far 
and  near  the  guns  were  popping  a  salute — which  set 
the  dogs  a-howling :  so  that  the  noise  was  heart 
rending.  Presently  the  neighbours  began  to  gather  : 
whereupon  (for  the  cottage  was  small)  we  took  our 
leave,  giving  the  pair  good  wishes  for  the  con 
tinuance  of  a  happy  married  life.  And  when  we 
got  to  our  house  we  found  waiting  in  the  kitchen 
Mag  Trawl,  who  had  that  day  brought  her  fish  from 
Swampy  Arm — a  dull  girl,  slatternly,  shiftless  :  the 
mother  of  two  young  sons. 

"  I  heared  tell,"  she  drawled,  addressing  the  doctor, 
but  looking  elsewhere,  "  that  you're  just  after  mar- 
ryin'  Aunt  Amanda." 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"  I  'low,"  she  went  on,  after  an  empty  pause, 
"  that  I  wants  t'  get  married,  too." 

"  Where's  the  man  ?  " 

"  Jim  he  'lowed  two  year  ago,"  she  said,  staring  at 
the  ceiling, "  that  we'd  go  south  an'  have  it  done  this 
season  if  no  parson  come." 

"  Bring  the  man,"  said  the  doctor,  briskily. 

"  Well,  zur,"  said  she,  "  Jim  ain't  here.  You 
couldn't  do  it  'ithout  Jim  bein'  here,  could  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  I  'lowed  you  might  be  able,"  she  said,  with  a  lit- 


The  FATE  of  The  MAIL-BOAT  DOCTOR    195 

tie  sigh,  "  if  you  tried.  But  you  couldn't,  says 
you?" 

"  No." 

"  Jim  he  'lowed  two  year  ago  it  ought  t'  be  done. 
You  couldn't  do  it  nohow  ?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  Couldn't  make  a  shift  at  it  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Anyhow,"  she  sighed,  rising  to  go,  "  I  'low  Jim 
won't  mind  now.  He's  dead." 

Within  three  weeks  the  mail-boat  touched  our 
harbour  for  the  last  time  that  season :  being  then 
southbound  into  winter  quarters  at  St.  John's.  It 
chanced  in  the  night — a  clear  time,  starlit,  but  windy, 
with  a  high  sea  running  beyond  the  harbour  rocks. 
She  came  in  by  way  of  North  Tickle,  lay  for  a  time 
in  the  quiet  water  off  our  wharf,  and  made  the  open 
through  the  Gate.  From  our  platform  we  watched 
the  shadowy  bulk  and  warm  lights  slip  behind 
Frothy  Point  and  the  shoulder  of  the  Watchman — 
hearkened  for  the  last  blast  of  the  whistle,  which 
came  back  with  the  wind  when  the  ship  ran  into  the 
great  swell  of  the  sea.  Then — at  once  mustering  all 
our  cheerfulness — we  turned  to  our  own  concerns  : 
wherein  we  soon  forgot  that  there  was  any  world  but 
ours,  and  were  content  with  it. 


196      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Tom  Tot  came  in. 

"  Tis  late  for  you,  Tom,"  said  my  sister,  in  sur 
prise. 

"  Ay,  Miss  Bessie,"  he  replied,  slowly.  "  Wonder 
ful  late  for  me.  But  I  been  home  talkin'  with  my 
woman,"  he  went  on,  "  an'  we  was  thinkin'  it  over, 
an'  she  s'posed  I'd  best  be  havin'  a  little  spell  with 
the  doctor." 

He  was  very  grave — and  sat  twirling  his  cap  :  lost 
in  anxious  thought. 

"  You're  not  sick,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Sick !  "  he  replied,  indignantly.  "  Sure,  I'd  not 
trouble  the  doctor  for  that !  I'm  troubled,"  he  added, 
quietly,  looking  at  his  cap,  "  along — o'  Mary." 

It  seemed  hard  for  him  to  say. 

"  She've  been  in  service,  zur,"  he  went  on,  turning 
to  the  doctor,  "  at  Wayfarer's  Tickle.  An'  I'm  fair 
troubled — along  o'  she." 

"She've  not  come?"  my  sister  asked. 

For  a  moment  Tom  regarded  the  floor — his  gaze 
fixed  upon  a  protruding  knot.  "  She  weren't  aboard, 
Miss  Bessie,"  he  answered,  looking  up,  "  an'  she 
haven't  sent  no  word.  I  been  thinkin'  I'd  as  lief 
take  the  skiff  an'  go  fetch  her  home." 

"  Go  the  morrow,  Tom,"  said  I. 

"  I  was  thinkin'  I  would,  Davy,  by  your  leave. 
Not,"  he  added,  hastily,  "  that  I'm  afeared  she've 


The  FATE  of  The  MAIL-BOAT  DOCTOR    197 

come  t'  harm.  She's  too  scared  o'  hell  for  that. 
But — I'm  troubled.  An'  I'm  thinkin'  she  might — 
want  a  chance — home." 

He  rose. 

"  Tom,"  said  I,  "  do  you  take  Timmie  Lovejoy  an' 
Will  Watt  with  you.  You'll  need  un  both  t'  sail  the 
skiff." 

"  I'm  thankin'  you,  Davy,  lad,"  said  he.  "  'Tis 
kind  o'  you  t'  spare  them." 

"  An'  I'm  wishin'  you  well." 

He  picked  at  a  thread  in  his  cap.  "  No,"  he  per 
sisted,  doggedly,  "  she  were  so  wonderful  scared  o' 
hell  she  fair  couldrit  come  t'  harm.  I  brung  her  up 
too  well  for  that.  But,"  with  a  frown  of  anxious 
doubt,  "  the  Jagger  crew  was  aboard,  bound  home  t' 
Newf'un'land.  An' — well — I'm  troubled.  They  was 
drunk — an'  Jagger  was  drunk — an'  I  asked  un  about 
my  maid — an'  .  .  ." 

"  Would  he  tell  you  nothing  ?  "  the  doctor  asked. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  turning  away, "  he  just  laughed." 

We  were  at  that  moment  distracted  by  the  foot 
fall  of  men  coming  in  haste  up  the  path  from  my 
father's  wharf.  'Twas  not  hard  to  surmise  their  er 
rand.  My  sister  sighed — I  ran  to  the  door — the  doc 
tor  began  at  once  to  get  into  his  boots  and  great-coat. 
But,  to  our  surprise,  two  deck-hands  from  the  mail- 
boat  pushed  their  way  into  the  room.  She  had  re- 


198      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

turned  (said  they)  and  was  now  waiting  off  the  Gate. 
There  was  need  of  a  doctor  aboard.  Need  of  a  doctor ! 
What  of  the  mail-boat  doctor  ?  Ah,  'twas  he  who  was 
in  need.  My  heart  bounded  to  hear  it !  And  how 
had  he  come  to  that  pass  ?  He  had  essayed  to  turn 
in — but  'twas  rough  water  outside — and  he  had 
caroused  with  Jagger's  crew  all  the  way  from  Way 
farer's  Tickle — and  'twas  very  rough  water — and  he 
had  fallen  headlong  down  the  companion — and  they 
had  picked  him  up  and  put  him  in  his  berth,  where 
he  lay  unconscious. 

'Twas  sweet  news  to  me.  "  You'll  not  go  ? "  I 
whispered  to  the  doctor. 

He  gave  me  a  withering  glance — and  quietly  con 
tinued  to  button  his  greatcoat. 

"  Is  you  forgot  what  I  told  you  ?  "  I  demanded, 
my  voice  rising. 

He  would  not  reply. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  ! "  I  pleaded. 

He  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat — picked  up  his 
little  black  case  of  medicines.  Then  I  feared  that  he 
meant  indeed  to  go. 

"  Leave  un  die  where  he  lies,  zur  !  "  I  wailed. 

"  Come  along,  men  !  "  said  he  to  the  deck-hands. 

I  sprang  ahead  of  them — flung  the  door  shut — put 
my  back  against  it :  crying  out  against  him  all  the 
while.  My  sister  caught  my  wrist — I  pushed  her 


The  FATE  of  The  MAIL-BOAT  DOCTOR.    199 

away.  Tom  Tot  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder — I 
threw  it  off  with  an  oath.  My  heart  was  in  a  flame 
of  rage  and  resentment.  That  this  castaway  should 
succour  our  enemy  !  I  saw,  again,  a  great,  wet  sweep 
of  deck,  glistening  underfoot — heard  the  rush  of 
wind,  the  swish  of  breaking  seas,  the  throb  and  clank 
of  engines,  the  rain  on  the  panes — once  again 
breathed  the  thick,  gray  air  of  a  cabin  where  two 
men  sat  at  cards — heard  the  curse  and  blow  and  out 
cry — saw  my  mother  lying  on  the  pillows,  a  red 
geranium  in  her  thin,  white  hand — heard  her  sigh 
and  whisper  :  felt  anew  her  tender  longing. 

"  You'll  not  go  !  "  I  screamed.  "  Leave  the  dog  t' 
die!" 

Very  gently,  the  doctor  put  his  arm  around  me, 
and  gave  me  to  my  sister,  who  drew  me  to  her  heart, 
whispering  soft  words  in  my  ear :  for  I  had  no  power 
to  resist,  having  broken  into  sobs.  Then  they  went 
out :  and  upon  this  I  broke  roughly  from  my  sister, 
and  ran  to  my  own  room ;  and  I  threw  myself  on 
my  bed,  and  there  lay  in  the  dark,  crying  bitterly — 
not  because  the  doctor  had  gone  his  errand  against 
my  will,  but  because  my  mother  was  dead,  and  I 
should  never  hear  her  voice  again,  nor  touch  her 
hand,  nor  feel  her  lips  against  my  cheek.  And 
there  I  lay  alone,  in  deepest  woe,  until  the  doctor 
came  again ;  and  when  I  heard  him  on  the  stair — 


200      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

and  while  he  drew  a  chair  to  my  bed  and  felt  about 
for  my  hand — I  still  sobbed :  but  no  longer  hated 
him,  for  I  had  all  the  time  been  thinking  of  my 
mother  in  a  better  way. 

"  Davy,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  the  man  is  dead." 

"  I'm  glad  !  "  I  cried. 

He  ignored  this.  "  I  find  it  hard,  Davy,"  said  he, 
after  a  pause,  "  not  to  resent  your  displeasure.  Did 
I  not  know  you  so  well — were  I  less  fond  of  the  real 
Davy  Roth — I  should  have  you  ask  my  pardon. 
However,  I  have  not  come  up  to  tell  you  that ;  but 
this :  you  can,  perhaps,  with  a  good  heart  hold 
enmity  against  a  dying  man ;  but  the  physician, 
Davy,  may  not.  Do  you  understand,  Davy  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  I  done  what  I  did,  zur,"  I  muttered, 
contritely.  "  But  I'm  wonderful  glad  the  man's 
dead." 

"  For  shame ! " 

"  I'm  glad ! " 

He  left  me  in  a  huff. 

"  An'  I'll  be  glad,"  I  shouted  after  him,  at  the  top 
of  my  voice,  "  if  I  got  t'  go  't  hell  for  it ! " 

'Twas  my  nature. 

Tom  Tot  returned  downcast  from  Wayfarer's 
Tickle :  having  for  three  days  sought  his  daughter, 
whom  he  could  not  find  ;  nor  was  word  of  her  any- 


The  FATE  of  The  MAIL-BOAT  DOCTOR   201 

where  to  be  had.  Came,  then,  the  winter — with 
high  winds  and  snow  and  short  gray  days  :  sombre 
and  bitter  cold.  Our  folk  fled  to  the  tilts  at  the 
Lodge ;  and  we  were  left  alone  with  the  maids  and 
Timmie  Lovejoy  in  my  father's  house :  but  had  no 
idle  times,  for  the  doctor  would  not  hear  of  it,  but 
kept  us  at  work  or  play,  without  regard  for  our 
wishes  in  the  matter.  Twas  the  doctor's  delight  by 
day  to  don  his  new  skin  clothes  (which  my  sister  had 
finished  in  haste  after  the  first  fall  of  snow)  and  with 
help  of  Timmie  Lovejoy  to  manage  the  dogs  and 
komatik,  flying  here  and  there  at  top  speed,  with 
many  a  shout  and  crack  of  the  long  whip.  By  night 
he  kept  school  in  the  kitchen,  which  we  must  all 
diligently  attend,  even  to  the  maids  :  a  profitable  oc 
cupation,  no  doubt,  but  laborious,  to  say  the  least  of 
it,  though  made  tolerable  by  his  good  humour.  By 
and  by  there  came  a  call  from  Blister  Harbour,  which 
was  forty  miles  to  the  north  of  us,  where  a  man  had 
shot  off  his  hand — another  from  Red  Cove,  eighty 
miles  to  the  south — others  from  Backwater  Arm  and 
Molly's  Tub.  And  the  doctor  responded,  afoot  or 
with  the  dogs,  as  seemed  best  at  the  moment :  my 
self  to  bear  him  company ;  for  I  would  have  it  so, 
and  he  was  nothing  loath. 


XX 

CHRISTMAS  El/E  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE 

RETURNING  afoot  from  the  bedside  of  Long 
John  Wise  at  Run-by-Guess — and  from  many 
a  bedside  and  wretched  hearth  by  the  way — 
the  doctor  and  I  strapped  our  packs  aback  and 
heartily  set  out  from  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company's 
post  at  Bread-and- Water  Bay  in  the  dawn  of  the  day 
before  Christmas  :  being  then  three  weeks  gone  from 
our  harbour,  and,  thinking  to  reach  it  next  day.  We 
were  to  chance  hospitality  for  the  night ;  and  this  must 
be  (they  told  us)  at  the  cottage  of  a  man  of  the  name 
of  Jonas  Jutt,  which  is  at  Topmast  Tickle.  There  was 
a  lusty  old  wind  scampering  down  the  coast,  with 
many  a  sportive  whirl  and  whoop,  flinging  the  snow 
about  in  vast  delight — a  big,  rollicking  winter's  wind, 
blowing  straight  out  of  the  north,  at  the  pitch  of  half  a 
gale.  With  this  abeam  we  made  brave  progress  ;  but 
yet  'twas  late  at  night  when  we  floundered  down  the 
gully  called  Long-an'-Deep,  where  the  drifts  were 
overhead  and  each  must  rescue  the  other  from  sud 
den  misfortune  :  a  warm  glimmer  of  light  in  Jonas 
Jutt's  kitchen  window  to  guide  and  hearten  us. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    203 

The  doctor  beat  the  door  with  his  fist.  "  Open, 
open  ! "  cried  he,  still  furiously  knocking.  "  Good 
Lord  !  will  you  never  open  ?  " 

So  gruff  was  the  voice,  so  big  and  commanding — 
and  so  sudden  was  the  outcry — and  so  late  was  the 
night  and  wild  the  wind  and  far  away  the  little  cot 
tage — that  the  three  little  Jutts,  who  then  (as  it 
turned  out)  sat  expectant  at  the  kitchen  fire,  must  all 
at  once  have  huddled  close ;  and  I  fancy  that  Sammy 
blinked  no  longer  at  the  crack  in  the  stove,  but 
slipped  from  his  chair  and  limped  to  his  sister,  whose 
hand  he  clutched. 

"  We'll  freeze,  I  tell  you  ! "  shouted  the  doctor. 

"  Open  the Ha !  Thank  you,"  in  a  mollified 

way,  as  Skipper  Jonas  opened  the  door ;  and  then, 
most  engagingly :  "  May  we  come  in  ?  " 

"  An'  welcome,  zur,"  said  the  hearty  Jonas, "  who 
ever  you  be !  'Tis  gettin'  t'  be  a  wild  night." 

"  Thank  you.  Yes— a  wild  night.  Glad  to  catch 
sight  of  your  light  from  the  top  of  the  hill.  We'll 
leave  the  racquets  here.  Straight  ahead?  Thank 
you.  I  see  the  glow  of  a  fire." 

We  entered. 

"  Hello ! "  cried  the  doctor,  stopping  short. 
"What's  this?  Kids?  Good!  Three  of  them. 
Ha !  How  are  you  ?  " 

The  manner  of  asking  the  question  was  most  in- 


204      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

dignant,  not  to  say  threatening ;  and  a  gasp  and 
heavy  frown  accompanied  it.  By  this  I  knew  that 
the  doctor  was  about  to  make  sport  for  Martha  and 
Jimmie  and  Sammy  Jutt  (as  their  names  turned  out 
to  be) :  which  often  he  did  for  children  by  pretend 
ing  to  be  in  a  great  rage ;  and  invariably  they  found 
it  delicious  entertainment,  for  however  fiercely  he 
blustered,  his  eyes  twinkled  most  merrily  all  the 
time,  so  that  one  was  irresistibly  moved  to  chuckle 
with  delight  at  the  sight  of  them,  no  matter  how 
suddenly  or  how  terribly  he  drew  down  his  brows. 

"  I  like  kids,"  said  he,  with  a  smack  of  the  lips. 
"  I  eat  'em  !  " 

Gurgles  of  delight  escaped  from  the  little  Jutts — 
and  each  turned  to  the  other :  the  eyes  of  all  dancing. 

"  And  how  are  you  ?  "  the  doctor  demanded. 

His  fierce  little  glance  was  indubitably  directed  at 
little  Sammy,  as  though,  God  save  us  !  the  lad  had  no 
right  to  be  anything  but  well,  and  ought  to  be,  and 
should  be,  birched  on  the  instant  if  he  had  the 
temerity  to  admit  the  smallest  ache  or  pain  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  soles  of  his  feet.  But 
Sammy  looked  frankly  into  the  flashing  eyes,  grinned, 
chuckled  audibly,  and  lisped  that  he  was  better. 

"  Better  ?  "  growled  the  doctor,  searching  Sammy's 
white  face  and  skinny  body  as  though  for  evidence  to 
the  contrary.  "  I'll  attend  to  you  /  " 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    205 

Thereupon  Skipper  Jonas  took  us  to  the  shed, 
where  we  laid  off  our  packs  and  were  brushed  clean 
of  snow ;  and  by  that  time  Matilda  Jutt,  the  mother 
of  Martha  and  Jimmie  and  Sammy,  had  spread  the 
table  with  the  best  she  had — little  enough,  God 
knows !  being  but  bread  and  tea — and  was  smiling 
beyond.  Presently  there  was  nothing  left  of  the 
bread  and  tea;  and  then  we  drew  up  to  the  fire, 
where  the  little  Jutts  still  sat,  regarding  us  with  great 
interest.  And  I  observed  that  Martha  Jutt  held  a 
letter  in  her  hand :  whereupon  I  divined  precisely 
what  our  arrival  had  interrupted,  for  I  was  Labrador 
born,  and  knew  well  enough  what  went  on  in  the 
kitchens  of  our  land  of  a  Christmas  Eve. 

"  And  now,  my  girl,"  said  the  doctor,  "  what's 
what  ?  " 

By  this  extraordinary  question — delivered,  as  it 
was,  in  a  manner  that  called  imperatively  for  an 
answer — Martha  Jutt  was  quite  nonplussed  :  as  the 
doctor  had  intended  she  should  be. 

"  What's  what  ?  "  repeated  the  doctor. 

Quite  startled,  Martha  lifted  the  letter  from  her 
lap.  "  He's  not  comin,1  zur,"  she  gasped,  for  lack  of 
something  better. 

"  You're  disappointed,  I  see,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  So  he's  not  coming  ?  " 

"  No,  zur — not  this  year." 


206      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  That's  too  bad.  But  you  mustn't  mind  it,  you 
know — not  for  an  instant.  What's  the  matter  with 
him  ?  " 

"  He've  broke  his  leg,  zur." 

"  What !  "  cried  the  doctor,  restored  of  a  sudden 
to  his  natural  manner.  "  Poor  fellow !  How  did  he 
come  to  do  that  ?  " 

"  Catchin'  one  o'  they  wild  deer,  zur." 

"  Catching  a  deer  !  "  the  doctor  exclaimed.  "  A 
most  extraordinary  thing.  He  was  a  fool  to  try  it. 
How  long  ago  ?  " 

"  Sure,  it  can't  be  more  than  half  an  hour ;  for 
he've " 

The  doctor  jumped  up.  "  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  de 
manded,  with  professional  eagerness.  "  It  can't  be 
far.  Davy,  I  must  get  to  him  at  once.  I  must 
attend  to  that  leg.  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Narth  Pole,  zur,"  whispered  Sammy. 

"  Oh-h-h  ! "  cried  the  doctor ;  and  he  sat  down 
again,  and  pursed  his  lips,  and  winked  at  Sammy  in 
a  way  most  peculiar.  "  I  see  !  " 

11  Ay,  zur,"  Jimmie  rattled,  eagerly.  We're  fair 
disappointed  that  he's  not " 

"  Ha  !  "  the  doctor  interrupted.  "  I  see.  Hum  ! 
Well,  now ! "  And  having  thus  incoherently  ex 
claimed  for  a  little,  the  light  in  his  eyes  growing 
merrier  all  the  time,  he  most  unaccountably  worked 


CHRISTMAS  EI/E  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    207 

himself  into  a  great  rage :  whereby  I  knew  that  the 
little  Jutts  were  in  some  way  to  be  mightily  amused. 
"  The  lazy  rascal !  "  he  shouted,  jumping  out  of  his 
chair,  and  beginning  to  stamp  the  room,  frowning 
terribly.  "  The  fat,  idle,  blundering  dunderhead ! 
Did  they  send  you  that  message  ?  Did  they,  now  ? 
Tell  me,  did  they?  Give  me  that  letter!"  He 
snatched  the  letter  from  Martha's  lap.  "  Sammy," 
he  demanded,  "  where  did  this  letter  come  from  ?  " 

"  Narth  Pole,  zur  !  " 

Jonas  Jutt  blushed — and  Matilda  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head  to  hide  her  confusion. 

"  And  how  did  it  come  ?  " 

"  Out  o'  the  stove,  zur." 

The  doctor  opened  the  letter,  and  paused  to  slap 
it  angrily,  from  time  to  time,  as  he  read  it. 

North  poll 
DEER  MARTHA 

few  lines  is  to  let  you  know  on  acounts  of 
havin  broke  me  leg  cotchin  the  deer  Im  sory  im  in 
a  stat  of  helth  not  bein  able  so  as  to  be  out  in  hevy 
wether,     hopin  you  is  all  wel  as  it  leves  me 
yrs  respectful 

SANDY  CLAWS 

Fish  was  poor  and  it  would  not  be  much  this  yere 
anyways,  tel  little  Sammy 

"  Ha  !  "  shouted  the  doctor,  as  he  crushed  the 
letter  to  a  little  ball  and  flung  it  under  the  table. 


208      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Ha  !  That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  happens  when 
one's  away  from  home.  There  you  have  it !  Dis 
cipline  gone  to  the  dogs.  System  gone  to  the  dogs. 
Everything  gone  to  the  dogs.  Now,  what  do  you 
think  of  that  ?  " 

He  scowled,  and  gritted  his  teeth,  and  puffed,  and 
said  "  Ha  ! "  in  a  fashion  so  threatening  that  one 
must  needs  have  fled  the  room  had  there  not  been  a 
curiously  reassuring  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? "  he  repeated, 
fiercely,  at  last.  "  A  countermanded  order !  I'll 
attend  to  him  !  "  he  burst  out.  "  I'll  fix  that  fellow  ! 
The  lazy  dunderhead,  I'll  soon  fix  him  !  Give  me 
pen  and  ink.  Where's  the  paper  ?  Never  mind. 
I've  some  in  my  pack.  One  moment,  and  I'll  — 

He  rushed  to  the  shed,  to  the  great  surprise  and 
alarm  of  the  little  Jutts,  and  loudly  called  back  for  a 
candle,  which  Skipper  Jonas  carried  to  him  ;  and 
when  he  had  been  gone  a  long  time,  he  returned 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  still  ejaculating  in  a  great 
rage. 

"  See  that  ? "  said  he  to  the  three  little  Jutts. 
"Well,  that's  for  Santa  Claus's  clerk.  That'll  fix 
him.  That'll  blister  the  stupid  fellow." 

"  Please,  zur !  "  whispered  Martha  Jutt. 

"  Well?"  snapped  the  doctor,  stopping  short  in  a 
rush  to  the  stove. 


CHRISTMAS  EYE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE   209 

"  Please,  zur,"  said  Martha,  taking  courage,  and 
laying  a  timid  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Sure,  I  don't 
know  what  'tis  all  about.  I  don't  know  what  blun 
der  he've  made.  But  I'm  thinkin',  zur,  you'll  be 
sorry  if  you  acts  in  haste.  'Tis  wise  t'  count  a  hun 
dred.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  un,  zur.  'Tis  like  the 
blunder  may  be  mended.  'Tis  like  he'll  do  better 
next  time.  Don't  be  hard " 

"  Hard  on  him  ?  "  the  doctor  interrupted.  "  Hard 
on  him  !  Hard  on  that ' 

"  Ay,  zur,"  she  pleaded,  looking  fearlessly  up. 
"  Won't  you  count  a  hundred  ?  " 

"  Count  it,"  said  he,  grimly. 

Martha  counted.  I  observed  that  the  numbers  fell 
slower — and  yet  more  slowly — from  her  lips,  until 
(and  she  was  keenly  on  the  watch)  a  gentler  look 
overspread  the  doctor's  face;  and  then  she  rattled 
them  off,  as  though  she  feared  he  might  change  his 
mind  once  more. 

" an'  a  hundred ! "  she  concluded,  breath 
less. 

"  Well,"  the  doctor  drawled,  rubbing  his  nose, 
"  I'll  modify  it,"  whereupon  Martha  smiled,  "  just  to 
'blige you"  whereupon  she  blushed. 

So  he  scratched  a  deal  of  the  letter  out ;  then  he 
sealed  it,  strode  to  the  stove,  opened  the  door,  flung 
the  letter  into  the  flames,  slammed  the  door,  and 


210      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

turned  with  a  wondrously  sweet  smile  to  the  amazed 
little  Jutts. 

"  There ! "  he  sighed.  "  I  think  that  will  do  the 
trick.  We'll  soon  know,  at  any  rate." 

We  waited,  all  very  still,  all  with  eyes  wide  open, 
all  gazing  fixedly  at  the  door  of  the  stove.  Then, 
all  at  once — and  in  the  very  deepest  of  the  silence — 
the  doctor  uttered  a  startling  "  Ha ! "  leaped  from 
his  chair  with  such  violence  that  he  overturned  it, 
awkwardly  upset  Jimmie  Jutt's  stool  and  sent  the  lad 
tumbling  head  over  heels  (for  which  he  did  not  stop 
to  apologize) ;  and  there  was  great  confusion :  in  the 
midst  of  which  the  doctor  jerked  the  stove  door 
open,  thrust  in  his  arm,  and  snatched  a  blazing  letter 
straight  from  the  flames — all  before  Jimmie  and 
Martha  and  Sammy  Jutt  had  time  to  recover  from 
the  daze  into  which  the  sudden  uproar  had  thrown 
them. 

"  There  ! "  cried  the  doctor,  when  he  had  managed 
to  extinguish  the  blaze.  "  We'll  just  see  what's  in 
this.  Better  news,  I'll  warrant." 

You  may  be  sure  that  the  little  Jutts  were  blinking 
amazement.  There  could  be  no  doubt  about  the 
authenticity  of  that  communication.  And  the  doc 
tor  seemed  to  know  it :  for  he  calmly  tore  the  envel 
ope  open,  glanced  the  contents  over,  and  turned  to 
Martha,  the  broadest  of  grins  wrinkling  his  face. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    211 

"  Martha  Jutt,"  said  he,  "  will  you  please  be  good 
enough  to  read  that? 
And  Martha  read : 

North  Pole,  Dec.  24,  10 : 18  P.  M. 
To  Captain  Blizzard, 
Jonas  Jutt 's  Cottage,  Topmast  Tickle, 

Labrador  Coast. 
RESPECTED  SIR  : 

Regret  erroneous  report.  Mistake  of  a  clerk 
in  the  Bureau  of  Information.  Santa  Claus  got  away 
at  9 :  36.  Wind  blowing  due  south,  strong  and  fresh. 

SNOW,  Chief  Clerk. 

Then  there  was  a  great  outburst  of  glee.  It  was 
the  doctor  who  raised  the  first  cheer.  Three  times 
three  and  a  tiger !  And  what  a  tiger  it  was  !  What 
with  the  treble  of  Sammy,  which  was  of  the  thinnest 
description,  and  the  treble  of  Martha,  which  was  full 
and  sure,  and  the  treble  of  Jimmie,  which  danger 
ously  bordered  on  a  cracked  bass,  and  what  with 
Matilda's  cackle  and  Skipper  Jonas's  croak  and  my 
own  hoorays  and  the  doctor's  gutteral  uproar  (which 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  very  double  bass) — 
what  with  all  this,  as  you  may  be  sure,  the  shout  of 
the  wind  was  nowhere.  Then  we  joined  hands — it 
was  the  doctor  who  began  it  by  catching  Martha  and 
Matilda — and  danced  the  table  round,  shaking  our 
feet  and  tossing  our  arms,  the  glee  ever  more  uproar 
ious — danced  until  we  were  breathless,  every  one, 


212      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

save  little  Sammy,  who  was  not  asked  to  join  the 
gambol,  but  sat  still  in  his  chair,  and  seemod  to  ex 
pect  no  invitation. 

"  Wind  blowing  due  south,  strong  and  fresh," 
gasped  Jimmie,  when,  at  last,  we  sat  down.  "  He'll 
be  down  in  a  hurry,  with  they  swift  deer.  My  !  but 
he'll  just  whizz  in  this  gale ! " 

"  But  'tis  sad  'tis  too  late  t'  get  word  to  un,"  said 
Martha,  the  smile  gone  from  her  face. 

"  Sad,  is  it  ?  "  cried  the  doctor.  "  Sad  !  What's 
the  word  you  want  to  send  ?  " 

"  Tis  something  for  Sammy,  zur." 

Sammy  gave  Martha  a  quick  dig  in  the  ribs.  "  'N' 
mama,"  he  lisped,  reproachfully. 

"  Ay,  zur ;  we're  wantin'  it  bad.  An'  does  you 
think  us  could  get  word  to  un  ?  For  Sammy,  zur  ?  " 

"  'N'  mama,"  Sammy  insisted. 

"  We  can  try,  at  any  rate,"  the  doctor  answered, 
doubtfully.  "  Maybe  we  can  catch  him  on  the  way 
down.  Where's  that  pen  ?  Here  we  are.  Now  ! " 

He  scribbled  rapidly,  folded  the  letter  in  great 
haste,  and  dispatched  it  to  Santa  Claus's  clerk  by  the 
simple  process  of  throwing  it  in  the  fire.  As  before, 
he  went  to  his  pack  in  the  shed,  taking  the  candle 
with  him — the  errand  appeared  to  be  really  most 
trivial — and  stayed  so  long  that  the  little  Jutts,  who 
now  loved  him  very  much  (as  I  could  see),  wished 


CHRISTMAS  EYE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    213 

that  the  need  would  not  arise  again.  But,  all  in 
good  time,  he  returned,  and  sat  to  watch  for  the  re 
ply,  intent  as  any  of  them ;  and,  presently,  he 
snatched  the  stove  door  open,  creating  great  con 
fusion  in  the  act,  as  before ;  and  before  the  little  Jutts 
could  recover  from  the  sudden  surprise,  he  held  up  a 
smoking  letter.  Then  he  read  aloud  : 

"Try  Hamilton  Inlet.  Touches  there  10:48. 
Time  of  arrival  at  Topmast  Tickle  uncertain.  No 
use  waiting  up.  SNOW,  Clerk." 

"  By  Jove !  "  exclaimed  the  doctor.  "  That's  jolly ! 
Touches  Hamilton  Inlet  at  10:48."  He  consulted 
his  watch.  "It's  now  10:43  and  a  half.  We've 
just  four  and  a  half  minutes.  I'll  get  a  message  off 
at  once.  Where's  that  confounded  pen  ?  Ha ! 
Here  we  are.  Now — what  is  it  you  want  for  Sammy 
and  mama  ?  " 

The  three  little  Jutts  were  suddenly  thrown  into  a 
fearful  state  of  excitement.  They  tried  to  talk  all  at 
once ;  but  not  one  of  them  could  frame  a  coherent 
sentence.  It  was  most  distressful  to  see. 

"  The  Exterminator  ! "  Martha  managed  to  jerk 
out,  at  last. 

"Oh,  ay!"  cried  Jimmie  Jutt.  "Quick,  zur! 
Write  un  down.  Pine's  Prompt  Pain  Exterminator. 
Warranted  to  cure.  Please,  zur,  make  haste ! " 

The  doctor  stared  at  Jimmie. 


214      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Oh,  zur,"  groaned  Martha,  "  don't  be  starin'  like 
that !  Write,  zur  !  'Twas  all  in  the  paper  the  pros 
pector  left  last  summer.  Pine's  Prompt  Pain  Exter 
minator.  Cures  boils,  rheumatism,  pains  in  the  back 
an'  chest,  sore  throat,  an'  all  they  things,  an'  warts 
on  the  hands  by  a  simple  application  with  brown 
paper.  We  wants  it  for  the  rheumatiz,  zur.  Oh, 
zur " 

"  None  genuine  without  the  label,"  Jimmie  put  in, 
in  an  excited  rattle.  "  Money  refunded  if  no  cure. 
Get  a  bottle  with  the  label." 

The  doctor  laughed — laughed  aloud,  and  laughed 
again.  "  By  Jove  !  "  he  roared,  "  you'll  get  it.  It's 
odd,  but — ha,  ha  ! — by  Jove,  he  has  it  in  stock  !  " 

The  laughter  and  repeated  assurance  seemed 
vastly  to  encourage  Jimmie  and  Martha — the  doctor 
wrote  like  mad  while  he  talked — but  not  little 
Sammy.  All  that  he  lisped,  all  that  he  shouted,  all 
that  he  screamed,  had  gone  unheeded.  As  though 
unable  to  put  up  with  the  neglect  any  longer,  he 
limped  over  the  floor  to  Martha,  and  tugged  her 
sleeve,  and  pulled  at  Jimmie's  coat-tail,  and  jogged 
the  doctor's  arm,  until,  at  last,  he  attracted  a  measure 
of  attention.  Notwithstanding  his  mother's  protests 
— notwithstanding  her  giggles  and  waving  hands — 
notwithstanding  that  she  blushed  as  red  as  ink  (until, 
as  I  perceived,  her  freckles  were  all  lost  to  sight) — 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    215 

notwithstanding  that  she  threw  her  apron  over  her 
head  and  rushed  headlong  from  the  room,  to  the  im 
minent  danger  of  the  door-posts — little  Sammy  in 
sisted  that  his  mother's  gift  should  be  named  in  the 
letter  of  request. 

"  Quick !  "  cried  the  doctor.  "  What  is  it  ?  We've 
but  half  a  minute  left." 

Sammy  began  to  stutter. 

"  Make  haste,  b'y  !  "  cried  Jimmie. 

"  One  —  bottle  —  of — the  —  Magic  —  Egyptian — 
Beautifier,"  said  Sammy,  quite  distinctly  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life. 

The  doctor  looked  blank  ;  but  he  doggedly  nodded 
his  head,  nevertheless,  and  wrote  it  down ;  and  oft 
went  the  letter  at  precisely  10 : 47.45, as  the  doctor  said. 

Later — when  the  excitement  had  all  subsided 
and  we  sat  dreaming  in  the  warmth  and  glow 
• — the  doctor  took  little  Sammy  in  his  lap,  and 
told  him  he  was  a  very  good  boy,  and  looked 
deep  in  his  eyes,  and  stroked  his  hair,  and,  at 
last,  very  tenderly  bared  his  knee.  Sammy  flinched 
at  that ;  and  he  said  "  Ouch  !  "  once,  and  screwed  up 
his  face,  when  the  doctor — his  gruffness  all  gone,  his 
eyes  gentle  and  sad,  his  hand  as  light  as  a  mother's 
— worked  the  joint,  and  felt  the  knee-cap  and  socket 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 


216      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  And  is  this  the  rheumatiz  the  Prompt  Exter 
minator  is  to  cure,  Sammy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ith,  zur." 

"  Ah,  is  that  where  it  hurts  you  ?  Right  on  the 
point  of  the  bone,  there  ?  " 

"  Ith,  zur." 

"  And  was  there  no  fall  on  the  rock,  at  all  ?  Oh, 
there  was  a  fall  ?  And  the  bruise  was  just  there — 
where  it  hurts  so  much  ?  And  it's  very  hard  to 
bear,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Sammy  shook  his  head. 

"  No  ?  But  it  hurts  a  good  deal,  sometimes,  does 
it  not?  That's  too  bad.  That's  very  sad,  indeed. 
But,  perhaps — perhaps,  Sammy — I  can  cure  it  for 
you,  if  you  are  brave.  And  are  you  brave  ?  No  ? 
Oh,  I  think  you  are.  And  you'll  try  to  be,  at  any 
rate,  won't  you  ?  Of  course  !  That's  a  good  boy." 

And  so,  with  his  sharp  little  knives,  the  doctor 
cured  Sammy  Jutt's  knee,  while  the  lad  lay  white 
and  still  on  the  kitchen  table.  And  'twas  not  hard 
to  do ;  but  had  not  the  doctor  chanced  that  way, 
Sammy  Jutt  would  have  been  a  cripple  all  his  life. 

"  Doctor,  zur,"  said  Matilda  Jutt,  when  the  chil 
dren  were  put  to  bed,  with  Martha  to  watch  by 
Sammy,  who  was  still  very  sick,  "  is  you  really  got  a 
bottle  o'  Pine's  Prompt  ?  " 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  at  TOPMAST  TICKLE    217 

The  doctor  laughed.  "  An  empty  bottle,"  said 
he.  "  I  picked  it  up  at  Poverty  Cove.  Thought  it 
might  come  useful.  I'll  put  Sammy's  medicine  in 
that.  They'll  not  know  the  difference.  And  you'll 
treat  the  knee  with  it  as  I've  told  you.  That's  all. 
We  must  turn  in  at  once ;  for  we  must  be  gone  be 
fore  the  children  wake  in  the  morning." 

"  Oh,  ay,  zur  ;  an' "  she  began  :  but  hesitated, 

much  embarrassed. 

"  Well  ?  "  the  doctor  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  Would  you  mind  puttin'  some  queer  lookin'  stuff 
in  one  o'  they  bottles  o'  yours  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  in  surprise. 

"  An'  writin'  something  on  a  bit  o'  paper,"  she 
went  on,  pulling  at  her  apron,  and  looking  down, 
"  an'  gluin'  it  t'  the  bottle  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     But  what  shall  I  write  ?  " 

She  flushed.  " '  Magic  Egyptian  Beautifier,'  zur," 
she  answered  ;  "  for  I'm  thinkin'  'twould  please  little 
Sammy  t'  think  that  Sandy  Claws  left  something— 
for  me — too." 

If  you  think  that  the  three  little  Jutts  found  noth 
ing  but  bottles  of  medicine  in  their  stockings,  when 
they  got  down-stairs  on  Christmas  morning,  you  are 
very  much  mistaken.  Indeed,  there  was  much  more 
than  that — a  great  deal  more  than  that.  I  will  not 


2iS      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  7 he  LABRADOR 

tell  you  what  it  was  ;  for  you  might  sniff,  and  say, 
"  Huh  !  That's  little  enough  !  "  But  there  was  more 
than  medicine.  No  man — rich  man,  poor  man,  beg- 
garman  nor  thief,  doctor,  lawyer  nor  merchant  chief — 
ever  yet  left  a  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  post,  stared 
in  the  face  by  the  chance  of  having  to  seek  hospital 
ity  of  a  Christmas  Eve — no  right-feeling  man,  I  say, 
ever  yet  left  a  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  post,  under 
such  circumstances,  without  putting  something  more 
than  medicine  in  his  pack.  I  chance  to  know,  at  any 
rate,  that  upon  this  occasion  Doctor  Luke  did  not. 
And  I  know,  too — you  may  be  interested  to  learn  it — 
that  as  we  floundered  through  the  deep  snow,  home 
ward  bound,  soon  after  dawn,  the  next  day,  he  was  glad 
enough  that  he  hadn't.  No  merry  shouts  came  over 
the  white  miles  from  the  cottage  of  Jonas  Jutt, 
though  I  am  sure  that  they  rang  there  most  heart 
ily  ;  but  the  doctor  did  not  care :  he  shouted  merrily 
enough  for  himself,  for  he  was  very  happy.  And 
that's  the  \\xy  you'd  feel,  too,  if  you  spent  your  days 
hunting  good  deeds  to  do. 


XXI 

DOWN    NORTH 

WHEN,  in  my  father's  house,  that  night,  the 
Christmas  revel  was  over — when,  last  of 
all,  in  noisy  glee,  we  had  cleared  the  broad 
kitchen  floor  for  Sir  Roger  De  Coverly,  which  we 
danced  with  the  help  of  the  maids'  two  swains  and 
Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  and  Jacky,  who  had  come  out 
from  the  Lodge  for  the  occasion  (all  being  done  to  the 
tune  of  "  Money  Musk,"  mercilessly  wrung  from  an 
ancient  accordion  by  Timmie  Lovejoy) — when,  after 
that,  we  had  all  gathered  before  the  great  blaze  in  the 
best  room,  we  told  no  tales,  such  as  we  had  planned 
to  tell,  but  soon  fell  to  staring  at  the  fire,  each  dream 
ing  his  own  dreams. 

It  may  be  that  my  thoughts  changed  with  the  dying 
blaze — passing  from  merry  fancies  to  gray  visions, 
trooping  out  of  the  recent  weeks,  of  cold  and  hunger 
and  squalid  death  in  the  places  from  which  we  had 
returned. 

"  Davy  !  "  said  my  sister. 

I  started. 

219 


220      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  What  in  the  world,"  she  asked,  "  is  you  thinkin' 
so  dolefully  of?" 

"  I  been  thinkin',"  I  answered,  sighing,  "  o'  the  folk 
down  narth." 

"  Of  the  man  at  Runner's  Woe  ? "  the  doctor 
asked. 

"  No,  zur.  He  on'y  done  murder.  'Twas  not  o' 
he.  'Twas  o'  something  sadder  than  that." 

"  Then  'tis  too  sad  to  tell,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  I  insisted.  "  Twould  do  well-fed  folk  good 
t'  hear  it." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  my  sister  asked. 

"  I  was  thinkin' " 

Ah,  but  'twas  too  sad ! 

"  O'  what  ?  " 

"  O'  the  child  at  Comfort  Harbour,  Bessie,  that 
starved  in  his  mother's  arms." 

Timmie  Lovejoy  threw  more  billets  on  the  fire. 
They  flamed  and  spluttered  and  filled  the  room  with 
cheerful  light. 

"  Davy,"  said  the  doctor,  "  we  can  never  cure  the 
wretchedness  of  this  coast." 

"  No,  zur  ?  " 

"  But  we  can  try  to  mitigate  it." 

"  We'll  try,"  said  I.     "  You  an'  me." 

"  You  and  I." 

"  And  I,"  my  sister  said. 


DOWN   NORTH  221 

Lying  between  the  sturdy  little  twins,  that  night — 
where  by  right  of  caste  I  lay,  for  it  was  the  warmest 
place  in  the  bed — I  abandoned,  once  and  for  all,  my 
old  hope  of  sailing  a  schooner,  with  the  decks  awash. 

"  Timmie  !  "  I  whispered. 

He  was  sound  asleep.  I  gave  him  an  impatient 
nudge  in  the  ribs. 

"  Ay,  Davy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  may  have  my  hundred-tonner,"  said  I. 

"  What  hundred-tonner  ?  " 

"  The  big  fore-an'-after,  Timmie,  I'm  t'  have  when 
I'm  growed.  You  may  skipper  she.  You'll  not 
wreck  her,  Timmie,  will  you  ?  " 

He  was  asleep. 

"  Hut ! "  I  thought,  angrily.  "  I'll  have  Jacky 
skipper  that  craft,  if  Timmie  don't  look  out." 

At  any  rate,  she  was  not  to  be  for  me. 


XXII 
The  WAY  From  HEART'S  DELIGHT 

IT  chanced  in  the  spring  of  that  year  that  my 
sister  and  the  doctor  and  I  came  unfortuitously 
into  a  situation  of  grave  peril :  wherein  (as  you 
shall  know)  the  doctor  was  precipitate  in  declaring 
a  sentiment,  which,  it  may  be,  he  should  still  have 
kept  close  within  his  heart,  withholding  it  until  a  hap 
pier  day.  But  for  this  there  is  some  excuse  :  for  not 
one  of  us  hoped  ever  again  to  behold  the  rocks  and 
placid  water  of  our  harbour,  to  continue  the  day's 
work  to  the  timely  close  of  the  day,  to  sit  in  quiet 
places,  to  dream  a  fruitful  future,  to  aspire  untroubled 
in  security  and  ease :  and  surely  a  man,  whatever  his 
disposition  and  strength  of  mind,  being  all  at  once 
thus  confronted,  may  without  blame  do  that  which, 
as  a  reward  for  noble  endeavour,  he  had  hoped  in  all 
honour  to  do  in  some  far-off  time. 

Being  bound  across  the  bay  from  Heart's  Delight 
of  an  ominously  dull  afternoon — this  on  a  straight 
away  course  over  the  ice  which  still  clung  to  the 


222 


The  WAY  From  HEART'S  DELIGHT     223 

coast  rocks — we  were  caught  in  a  change  of  wind 
and  swept  to  sea  with  the  floe  :  a  rising  wind,  blow 
ing  with  unseasonable  snow  from  the  northwest, 
which  was  presently  black  as  night.  Far  off  shore, 
the  pack  was  broken  in  pieces  by  the  sea,  scattered 
broadcast  by  the  gale ;  so  that  by  the  time  of  deep 
night — while  the  snow  still  whipped  past  in  clouds 
that  stung  and  stifled  us — our  pan  rode  breaking 
water :  which  hissed  and  flashed  on  every  hand,  the 
while  ravenously  eating  at  our  narrow  raft  of  ice. 
Death  waited  at  our  feet.  .  .  .  We  stood  with 
our  backs  to  the  wind,  my  sister  and  I  cowering, 
numb  and  silent,  in  the  lee  of  the  doctor.  .  .  . 
Through  the  long  night  'twas  he  that  sheltered  us. 
.  .  .  By  and  by  he  drew  my  sister  close.  She 
sank  against  his  breast,  and  trembled,  and  snuggled 
closer,  and  lay  very  still  in  his  arms.  ...  I 
heard  his  voice  :  but  was  careless  of  the  words,  which 
the  wind  swept  overhead — far  into  the  writhing  night 
beyond. 

"  No,  zur,"  my  sister  answered.  "  I'm  not  afraid — 
with  you." 

A  long  time  after  that,  when  the  first  light  of 
dawn  was  abroad — sullen  and  cheerless — he  spoke 
again. 

"  Zur  ?  "  my  sister  asked,  trembling. 

He  whispered  in  her  ear. 


224      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Ay,  zur,"  she  answered. 
Then  he  kissed  her  lips.     .     .     . 


Late  in  the  day  the  snow-clouds  passed.  Ice  and 
black  water  mercilessly  encompassed  us  to  the  round 
horizon  of  gray  sky.  There  was  no  hope  anywhere 
to  be  descried.  ...  In  the  dead  of  night  a 
change  of  wind  herded  the  scattered  fragments  of  the 
pack.  The  ice  closed  in  upon  us — great  pans,  crash 
ing  together:  threatening  to  crush  our  frailer  one. 
.  .  .  We  were  driven  in  a  new  direction.  .  . 
Far  off  to  leeward — somewhere  deep  in  the  black 
night  ahead — the  floe  struck  the  coast.  We  heard 
the  evil  commotion  of  raftering  ice.  It  swept  towards 
us.  Our  pan  stopped  dead  with  a  jolt.  The  pack 
behind  came  rushing  upon  us.  We  were  tilted  out 
of  the  water — lifted  clear  of  it  all — dropped  headlong 
with  the  wreck  of  the  pan.  .  .  . 

I  crawled  out  of  a  shallow  pool  of  water.     "  Bes 
sie  !  "  I  screamed.     "  Oh,  Bessie,  where  is  you  ?  " 

The    noise   of    the    pack  passed   into   distance — 
dwindling  to  deepest  silence. 

"  Davy,"  my  sister  called,  "  is  you  hurt  ?  " 

"  Where  is  you,  Bessie  ?  " 

"  Here,  dear,"  she  answered,  softly.     "  The  doctor 
has  me  safe." 

Guided  by  her  sweet  voice,  I  crept  to  them ;  and 


•The  WAY  From  HEARTS  DELIGHT     225 

then  we  sat  close  together,  silent   all  in   the  silent 
night,  waiting  for  the  dawn.     .     .     . 

We  traversed  a  mile  or  more  of  rugged,  blinding 
ice — the  sky  blue  in  every  part,  the  sun  shining  warm, 
the  wind  blowing  light  and  balmy  from  the  south. 
What  with  the  heat,  the  glare,  the  uneven,  treacher 
ous  path — with  many  a  pitfall  to  engulf  us — 'twas  a 
toilsome  way  we  travelled.  The  coast  lay  white  and 
forsaken  beyond — desolate,  inhospitable,  unfamiliar : 
an  unkindly  refuge  for  such  castaways  as  we.  But 
we  came  gratefully  to  the  rocks,  at  last,  and  fell  ex 
hausted  in  the  snow,  there  to  die,  as  we  thought,  of 
hunger  and  sheer  weariness.  And  presently  the 
doctor  rose,  and,  bidding  us  lie  where  we  were,  set 
out  to  discover  our  whereabouts,  that  he  might  by 
chance  yet  succour  us :  which  seemed  to  me  a  hope 
less  venture,  for  the  man  was  then  near  snow-blind, 
as  I  knew.  .  .  . 

Meantime,  at  our  harbour,  where  the  world  went 
very  well,  the  eye  of  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy 
chanced  in  aimless  roving  to  alight  upon  the  letter 
from  Wolf  Cove,  still  securely  fastened  to  the  wall, 
ever  visible  warning  to  that  happy  household  against 
the  wiles  o'  women.  I  fancy  that  (the  twins  being 
gone  to  Trader's  Cove  to  enquire  for  us)  the  mild 


226      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR. 

blue  eye  wickedly  twinkled — that  it  found  the  tender 
missive  for  the  moment  irresistible  in  fascination — 
that  the  old  man  approached,  stepping  in  awe,  and 
gazed  with  gnawing  curiosity  at  the  pale,  sprawling 
superscription,  his  very  name — that  he  touched  the 
envelope  with  his  thick  forefinger,  just  to  make  sure 
that  'twas  tight  in  its  place,  beyond  all  peradventure 
of  catastrophe — that,  merely  to  provide  against  its 
defilement  by  dust,  he  removed  and  fondled  it — that 
then  he  wondered  concerning  its  contents,  until,  de 
spite  his  crying  qualms  of  conscience  (the  twins  be 
ing  gone  to  Trader's  Cove  and  Davy  Roth  off  to 
Heart's  Delight  to  help  the  doctor  heal  the  young 
son  of  Agatha  Rundle),  this  fateful  dreaming  alto 
gether  got  the  better  of  him.  At  any  rate,  off  he 
hied  through  the  wind  and  snow  to  Tom  Tot's  cot 
tage  :  where,  as  fortune  had  it,  Tom  Tot  was  mend 
ing  a  caplin  seine. 

"  Tom  Tot,"  said  he,  quite  shamelessly,  "  I'm  fair 
achin'  t'  know  what's  in  this  letter." 

The  harbour  was  cognizant  of  Skipper  Tommy's 
state  and  standing  temptation :  much  concerned,  as 
well,  as  to  the  outcome. 

"  Skipper  Tommy,"  Tom  Tot  asked,  and  that  most 
properly,  "  is  you  got  leave  o'  the  boss's  son  ?  " 

"  Davy  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Davy." 


The  WAY  From  HEART'S  DELIGHT    227 

"  I  is  not,"  the  skipper  admitted,  with  becoming 
candour. 

"  Is  you  spoke  t'  the  twins  ?  " 

"  I  is  not." 

"  Then,"  Tom  Tot  concluded,  "  shame  on  you  ! " 

Skipper  Tommy  tweaked  his  nose.  "  Tom  Tot," 
said  he,  "  you  got  a  wonderful  power  for  readin'. 
Don't  you  go  tellin'  me  you  hasn't !  I  knows  you 
has." 

"  Well,"  Tom  Tot  admitted,  "  as  you're  makin'  a 
p'int  of  it,  I'm  fair  on  print,  but  poor  on  writin'." 

"  Tom  Tot,"  Skipper  Tommy  went  on,  with  a  wave 
(I  fancy)  of  uttermost  admiration,  "  I'll  stand  by  it 
that  you  is  as  good  at  writin'  as  print.  That  I  will," 
he  added,  recklessly,  "  agin  the  world." 

Tom  Tot  yielded  somewhat  to  this  blandishment. 
He  took  the  proffered  letter.  "  I  isn't  denyin', 
Skipper  Tommy,"  he  said,  "  that  I'm  able  t'  make 
out  your  name  on  this  here  letter." 

"  Ecod ! "  cried  Skipper  Tommy,  throwing  up  his 
hands.  "  I  knowed  it !  " 

"  I  isn't  denyin',"  Tom  Tot  repeated,  gravely, 
"  that  I'm  fair  on  writin'.  Fair,  mark  you  !  No 
more." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  skipper,  "  but  I'm  wantin'  you  t' 
know  that  this  here  letter  was  writ  by  a  woman  with 
a  wonderful  sight  o'  1'arnin'.  I'll  warrant  you  can 


228      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

read  it.  O'  course,"  in  a  large,  conclusive  way,  "  an 
you  cant " 

"  Skipper  Tommy,"  Tom  interrupted,  quickly,  "  I 
isn't  sayiri  I  can't." 

"  Isn't  you  ?  "  innocently.  "  Why,  Tom  Tot,  I 
was  thinkin1 " 

"  No,  zur  1 "  Tom  answered  with  heat.     "  I  isn't !  " 

"  Well,  you  wouldn't " 

"  I  will !  " 

"  So  be,"  said  the  skipper,  with  a  sigh  of  infinite 
satisfaction.  "  I'm  thinkin',  somehow,"  he  added, 
his  sweet  faith  now  beautifully  radiant  (I  am  sure), 
as  was  his  way,  "  that  the  Lard  is  mixed  up  in  this 
letter.  He's  mixed  up  in  'most  all  that  goes  on,  an' 
I'd  not  be  s'prised  if  He  had  a  finger  in  this.  '  Now,' 
says  the  Lard,  '  Skipper  Tommy,'  says  He,  '  the 
mail-boat  went  t'  the  trouble  o'  leavin'  you  a  letter,' 
says  He, '  an1 '  " 

"  Leave  the  Lard  out  o'  this,"  Tom  Tot  broke  in. 

"  Sure,  an'  why  ?  "  Skipper  Tom  mildly  asked. 

"  You've  no  call  t'  drag  Un  in  here,"  was  the  sour 
reply.  "  You  leave  Un  alone.  You're  gettin'  too 
wonderful  free  an'  easy  with  the  Lard  God  A 'mighty, 
Thomas  Lovejoy.  He'll  be  strikin'  you  dead  in  your 
tracks  an  you  don't  look  out." 

"  Tom  Tot,"  the  skipper  began,  "  the  Lard  an'  me 
is  wonderful " 


7 'he  WAY  From  HEARTS  DELIGHT     229 

"  Leave  the  Lard  alone,"  Tom  Tot  snapped. 
"  Come,  now !  Is  you  wantin'  this  here  letter 
read?" 

«  I  is." 

Without  more  ado,  Tom  Tot  opened  the  letter 
from  Wolf  Cove.  I  have  no  doubt  that  sensitive 
blood  flushed  the  bronzed,  wrinkled  cheeks  of 
Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy,  and  that,  in  a  burst  of 
grinning  modesty,  he  tweaked  his  nose  with  small 
regard  for  that  sorely  tried  and  patient  member. 
And  I  am  informed  that,  while  my  old  friend  thus 
waited  in  ecstasy,  Tom  Tot  puzzled  over  the  letter, 
for  a  time,  to  make  sure  that  his  learning  would  not 
be  discomfited  in  the  presence  of  Skipper  Tommy 
Lovejoy,  before  whom  he  had  boasted.  Then 

"  Skipper  Tommy,"  he  implored,  in  agony,  "  how 
long — oh,  how  long — is  you  had  this  letter  ?  " 

Skipper  Tommy  stared. 

"  How  long,  oh,  how  long  ?  "  Tom  Tot  repeated. 

"  What's  gone  amiss  ?  "  Skipper  Tommy  entreated, 
touching  Tom  Tot's  shaking  hand.  "  It  come  in  the 
fall  o'  the  year,  Tom,  lad.  But  what's  gone  amiss 
along  o'  you  ?  " 

"  She've  been  waitin' — since  then  ?  Oh,  a 
wretched  father,  I ! " 

"  Tom,  lad,  tell  me  what  'tis  all  about." 

"  'Tis  from  she — Mary !     'Tis  from  my  lass,"  Tom 


DOCTOR  LUKE  of  7he  LABRADOR 

Tot  cried.  "  'Twas  writ  by  that  doctor-woman — 
an'  sent  t'  you,  Skipper  Tommy — t'  tell  me — t' 
break  it  easy — that  she'd  run  off  from  Wayfarer's 
Tickle — because  o'  the  sin  she'd  found  there.  I  mis 
doubt — oh,  I  misdoubt — that  she've  been  afeared 
I'd — that  I'd  mistook  her,  poor  wee  thing — an'  turn 
her  off.  I  call  the  Lard  God  A'mighty  t'  witness," 
he  cried,  passionately,  "  that  I'd  take  her  home, 
whatever  come  t'  pass  !  I  calls  God  t'  witness  that 
I  loves  my  lass !  She've  done  no  wrong,"  he  con 
tinued.  "  She've  but  run  away  from  the  sin  t'  Way 
farer's  Tickle.  She've  taken  shelter  t'  Wolf  Cove — 
because — she've  been  afeared  that — I'd  mistook — an' 
cast  her  off! " 

"  An'  she's  waitin'  there  for  you  ?  " 

"  Ay — for  me — t'  bring  her  home." 

"  For  her  father  t'  come  ?  " 

"  Her  father." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  "Tom  Tot," 
Skipper  Tommy  declared,  fetching  his  thigh  a  re 
sounding  slap,  "  that  letter's  been  tacked  t'  my  wall 
the  winter  long.  Is  you  hearin'  me,  Tom  Tot  ?  It's 
been  lyin'  idle  agin  my  wall.  While  she've  been 
waitin',  Tom  !  While  she've  been  waitin' ! " 

"Oh,  ay!" 

"  I'm  fair  glad  you're  hearin'  me,"  said  the  skipper. 
"  For  I  calls  you  t'  witness  this  :  that  when  I  cotches 


The  WAY  From  HEART'S  DELIGHT     231 

them  twins  o'  mine  I'll  thwack  un  till  they're  red, 
Tom  Tot — till  they're  red  and  blistered  below  decks. 
An'  when  I  cotches  that  young  Davy  Roth — when  I 
cotches  un  alone,  'ithout  the  doctor — I'll  give  un 
double  watches." 

"  We'll  get  underway  for  Wolf  Cove,  Skipper 
Tommy,"  said  Tom  Tot,  "  when  the  weather 
lightens.  An'  we'll  fetch  that  lass  o'  mine,"  he 
added,  softly,  "  home." 

"  That  we  will,  Tom  Tot,"  said  Skipper  Tommy 
Lovejoy. 

And  'twas  thus  it  came  about  that  we  were  res 
cued  :  for,  being  old  and  wise,  they  chose  to  foot  it 
to  Wolf  Cove — over  the  'longshore  hills — fearing  to 
chance  the  punt  at  sea,  because  of  the  shifting  ice. 
Midway  between  our  harbour  and  Wolf  Cove,  they 
found  the  doctor  sitting  blind  in  the  snow,  but  still 
lustily  entreating  the  surrounding  desolation  for 
help — raising  a  shout  at  intervals,  in  the  manner  of  a 
faithful  fog-horn.  Searching  in  haste  and  great  dis 
tress,  they  soon  came  upon  my  sister  and  me,  ex 
hausted,  to  be  sure,  and  that  most  pitiably,  but  not 
beyond  the  point  of  being  heartily  glad  of  their 
arrival.  Then  they  made  a  tiny  fire  with  birch  rind 
and  billets  from  Tom  Tot's  pack — and  the  fire 
crackled  and  blazed  in  a  fashion  the  most  heartening 
— and  the  smutty  tin  kettle  bubbled  as  busily  as  in 


232      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

the  most  immaculate  of  kitchens  :  and  presently  the 
tea  and  hard-bread  were  doing  such  service  as 
rarely,  indeed,  save  in  our  land,  it  is  their  good 
fortune  to  achieve.  And  having  been  refreshed  and 
roundly  scolded,  we  were  led  to  the  cove  beyond, 
where  we  lay  the  night  at  the  cottage  of  Tiltworthy 
Cutch  :  whence,  in  the  morning,  being  by  that  time 
sufficiently  restored,  we  set  out  for  our  harbour, 
under  the  guidance  of  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy, 
whose  continued  separation  from  the  woman  at 
Wolf  Cove  I  made  sure  of  by  commanding  his  pres 
ence  with  us. 

"  You  may  beat  me,  Skipper  Tommy,"  said  I, 
"  when  you  gets  me  home,  an'  I  wish  you  joy  of  it. 
But  home  you  goes  !  " 

"  But,  Davy,  lad,"  he  protested,  "  there's  that  poor 
Tom  Tot  goin'  on  alone " 

"  Home  you  goes  ! " 

"  An'  there's  that  kind-hearted  doctor-woman. 
Sure,  now,  Davy,"  he  began,  sweetly,  "  I'd  like  t'  tell 
she " 

"  That's  just,"  said  I,  "  what  I'm  afeared  of." 

Home  the  skipper  came  ;  and  when  the  twins  and 
I  subsequently  presented  ourselves  for  chastisement, 
with  solemn  ceremony,  gravely  removing  whatever 
was  deemed  in  our  harbour  superfluous  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  he  was  so  affected  by  the  spectacle  that 


The  WAY  From  HEART'S  DELIGHT     233 

(though  I  wish  I  might  write  it  differently)  he  de 
clared  himself  of  opinion,  fixed  and  unprejudiced, 
that  of  all  the  works  of  the  Lord,  which  were  many 
and  infinitely  blessed,  none  so  favoured  the  gracious 
world  as  the  three  contrite  urchins  there  present : 
and  in  this  ecstasy  of  tenderness  (to  our  shame)  quite 
forgot  the  object  of  our  appearance. 

When  Tom  Tot  brought  Mary  home  from  Wolf 
Cove,  my  sister  and  the  doctor  and  I  went  that  night 
by  my  sister's  wish  to  distinguish  the  welcome,  so 
that,  in  all  our  harbour,  there  might  be  no  quibble  or 
continuing  suspicion  ;  and  we  found  the  maid  cut 
ting  her  father's  hair  in  the  kitchen  (for  she  was  a 
clever  hand  with  the  scissors  and  comb),  as  though 
nothing  had  occurred — Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy 
meanwhile  with  spirit  engaging  the  old  man  in  a  dis 
cussion  of  the  unfailing  topic ;  this  being  the  atti 
tude  of  the  Lord  God  Almighty  towards  the 
wretched  sons  of  men,  whether  feeling  or  not. 

In  the  confusion  of  our  entrance  Mary  whispered 
in  my  ear.  "  Davy  lad,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of 
mystery,  "  I  got  home." 

"  I'm  glad,  Mary,"  I  answered,  "that  you  got  home." 

"  An',  hist ! "  said  she,  "  I  got  something  t'  tell 
you,"  said  she,  her  eyes  flashing,  "  along  about  hell." 

"  Is  you  ?  "  I  asked,  in  fear,  wishing  she  had  not. 


234      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

She  nodded. 

"  Is  you  got  t'  tell  me,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Davy,"  she  whispered,  pursing  her  lips,  in  the 
pause  regarding  me  with  a  glance  so  significant  of 
darkest  mystery  that  against  my  very  will  I  itched  to 
share  the  fearful  secret,  "  I  got  t'." 

"  Oh,  why  ?  "  I  still  protested. 

"  I  been  there  !  "  said  she. 

'Twas  quite  enough  to  entice  me  beyond  my 
power  :  after  that,  I  kept  watch,  all  in  a  shiver  of 
dread,  for  some  signal ;  and  when  she  had  swept  her 
father's  shorn  hair  from  the  floor,  and  when  my  sis 
ter  had  gone  with  Tom  Tot's  wife  to  put  the  swarm 
of  little  Tots  to  bed,  and  when  Tom  Tot  had  entered 
upon  a  minute  description  of  the  sin  at  Wayfarer's 
Tickle,  from  which  his  daughter,  fearing  sudden 
death  and  damnation,  had  fled,  Mary  beckoned  me 
to  follow  :  which  I  did.  Without,  in  the  breathless, 
moonlit  night,  I  found  her  waiting  in  a  shadow ;  and 
she  caught  me  by  the  wrist,  clutching  it  cruelly,  and 
led  me  to  the  deeper  shadow  and  seclusion  of  a  great 
rock,  rising  from  the  path  to  the  flake.  'Twas  very 
still  and  awesome,  there  in  the  dark  of  that  black 
rock,  with  the  light  of  the  moon  lying  ghostly  white 
on  all  the  barren  world,  and  the  long,  low  howl  of 
some  forsaken  dog  from  time  to  time  disturbing  the 
solemn  silence. 


The  WAY  From  HEARTS  DELIGHT     235 

I  was  afraid. 

"  Davy,  lad,"  she  whispered,  bending  close,  so  that 
she  could  look  into  my  eyes,  which  wavered, "  is  you 
listenin'  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  I  answered,  breathless. 

Her  voice  was  then  triumphant.  "  I  been  t'  hell," 
said  she,  "an'  back!" 

«  What's  it  like,  Mary  ?  " 

She  shuddered. 

"What's  it  like,"  I  pleaded,  lusting  for  the  unholy 
knowledge,  "  in  hell  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  stared  at  the  moonlit  hills. 
Her  grasp  on  my  wrist  relaxed.  I  saw  that  her  lips 
were  working. 

"What's  it  like,"  I  urged,  "in  hell?"  for  I  de 
voutly  wished  to  have  the  disclosure  over  with. 

"  Tis  hell,"  she  answered,  low,  "  at  Wayfarer's 
Tickle.  The  gate  t'  hell !  Rum  an'  love,  Davy, 
dear,"  she  added,  laying  a  fond  hand  upon  my  head, 
"  leads  t'  hell." 

"  Not  love  ! "  I  cried,  in  sudden  fear :  for  I  had 
thought  of  the  driving  snow,  of  my  dear  sister  lying 
in  the  doctor's  arms,  of  his  kiss  upon  her  lips.  "  Oh, 
love  leads  t'  heaven  ! " 

"  T'  hell,"  said  she. 

"No,  no!" 

"T'hell." 


236      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

I  suffered  much  in  the  silence — while,  together, 
Mary  and  I  stared  at  the  silent  world,  lying  asleep  in 
the  pale  light. 

"  'Twas  rum,"  she  resumed,  "  that  sent  the  crew  o' 
the  Right  an  Tight  t'  hell.  An'  'twas  a  merry  time 
they  had  at  the  gate.  Ay,  a  merry  time,  with  J agger 
fillin'  the  cups  an'  chalkin'  it  down  agin  the  fish  ! 
But  they  went  t'  hell.  They  went  t'  hell !  She  was 
lost  with  all  hands  in  the  gale  o'  that  week — lost  on 
the  Devil's  Fingers — an'  all  hands  drunk!  An'  Jack 
Ruddy  o'  Helpful  Harbour,"  she  muttered,  "  went 
down  along  o'  she.  He  was  a  bonnie  lad,"  she  added, 
tenderly,  "  an'  he  kissed  me  by  stealth  in  the  kitchen." 
Very  sorrowfully  she  dreamed  of  that  boisterous  kiss. 
"  But,"  she  concluded,  "  'twas  love  that  put  Eliza 
Hare  in  th'  etarnal  fires." 

"  Not  love !  "  I  complained. 

"  Davy,"  she  said,  not  deigning  to  answer  me, 
"  Davy,"  she  repeated,  her  voice  again  rising  splen 
didly  triumphant,  "  I  isn't  goin'  t'  hell !  For  I've 
looked  in  an'  got  away.  The  Lard  '11  never  send  me, 
now.  Never ! " 

"  I'm  glad,  Mary." 

"  I'm  not  a  goat,"  she  boasted.  "  'Twas  all  a  mis 
take.  I'm  a  sheep.  That's  what  /  is  ! " 

"  I'm  wonderful  glad." 

"  But  you,  Davy,"  she  warned,  putting  an  arm 


The  WAY  From  HEART'S  DELIGHT     237 

about  my  waist,  in  sincere  affection, "  you  better  look 
out." 

"  I  isn't  afeared." 

"  You  better  look  out ! " 

"  Oh,  Mary,"  I  faltered,  "  I — I — isn't  much 
afeared." 

"  You  better  look  out ! " 

"  Leave  us  go  home  !  "  I  begged. 

"  The  Lard  '11  ship  you  there  an  you  don't  look 
out.  He've  no  mercy  on  little  lads." 

"  Oh,  leave  us  go  home ! " 

«  He'll  be  cotchin'  you  ! " 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer :  nor  wished  to  know  any 
more  about  hell.  I  took  her  hand,  and  dragged  her 
from  the  black  shadow  of  the  rock :  crying  out  that 
we  must  now  go  home.  Then  we  went  back  to  Tom 
Tot's  cheerful  kitchen ;  and  there  I  no  longer  feared 
hell,  but  could  not  forget,  try  as  I  would,  what  Mary 
Tot  had  told  me  about  love. 

Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  was  preaching  what  the 
doctor  called  in  his  genial  way  "  The  Gospel  Accord 
ing  to  Tommy." 

"  Sure,  now,  Tom  Tot,"  said  he,  "  the  Lard  is  a 
Skipper  o'  wonderful  civil  disposition.  '  Skipper 
Tommy,'  says  He  t'  me,  '  an  you  only  does  the 
best '" 


2^8      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  You're  too  free  with  the  name  o'  the  Lard." 

Skipper  Tommy  looked  up  in  unfeigned  surprise. 
"  Oh,  no,  Tom,"  said  he,  mildly,  "  I  isn't.  The  Lard 
an'  me  is " 

"  You're  too  free,"  Tom  Tot  persisted.  "  Leave 
Un  be  or  you'll  rue  it." 

"  Oh,  no,  Tom,"  said  the  skipper.  "  The  Lard  an' 
me  gets  along  wonderful  well  together.  We're  won 
derful  good  friends.  I  isn't  scared  o'  He  !  " 

As  we  walked  home,  that  night,  the  doctor  told 
my  sister  and  me  that,  whatever  the  greater  world 
might  think  of  the  sin  at  Wayfarer's  Tickle,  whether 
innocuous  or  virulent,  Jagger  was  beyond  cavil  fla 
grantly  corrupting  our  poor  folk,  who  were  simple- 
hearted  and  easy  to  persuade :  that  he  was,  indeed,  a 
nuisance  which  must  be  abated,  come  what  would. 


XXIII 
The    COURSE    of    TRUE    LOl/E 

SYMPTOMS  of  my  dear  sister's  previous  disor 
der  now  again  alarmingly  developed — sighs 
and  downcast  glances,  quick  flushes,  infinite 
tenderness  to  us  all,  flashes  of  high  spirits,  wet 
lashes,  tumultuously  beating  heart;  and  there  were 
long  dreams  in  the  twilight,  wherein,  when  she 
thought  herself  alone,  her  sweet  face  was  at  times 
transfigured  into  some  holy  semblance.  And  per 
ceiving  these  unhappy  evidences,  I  was  once  more 
disquieted  ;  and  I  said  that  I  must  seek  the  doctor's 
aid,  that  she  might  be  cured  of  the  perplexing  mal 
ady  :  though,  to  be  sure,  as  then  and  there  I  impa 
tiently  observed,  the  doctor  seemed  himself  in  some 
strange  way  to  have  contracted  it,  and  was  doubtless 
quite  incapable  of  prescribing. 

My  sister  would  not  brook  this  interference.  "  I'm 
not  sayin',"  she  added, "  that  the  doctor  couldn't  cure 
me,  an  he  had  a  mind  to ;  for,  Davy,  dear,"  with  an 
earnest  wag  of  her  little  head,  "  'twould  not  be  the 
truth.  I'm  only  sayin'  that  I'll  not  have  un  try  it." 
"  Sure,  why,  Bessie  ?  " 

239 


240      DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Her  glance  fell.     "  I'll  not  tell  you  why,"  said  she. 

"  But  I'm  wantin'  t'  know." 

She  pursed  her  lips. 

"  Is  you  forgettin',"  I  demanded,  "  that  I'm  your 
brother  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  faltered. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  roughly,  "  I'll  have  the  doctor 
cure  you  whether  you  will  or  not !  " 

She  took  my  hand,  and  for  a  moment  softly 
stroked  it,  looking  away.  "  You're  much  changed, 
dear,"  she  said,  "  since  our  mother  died." 

«  Oh,  Bessie  !  " 

"  Ay,"  she  sighed. 

I  hung  my  head.  'Twas  a  familiar  bitterness.  I 
was,  indeed,  not  the  same  as  I  had  been.  And  it 
seems  to  me,  now — even  at  this  distant  day — that 
this  great  loss  works  sad  changes  in  us  every  one. 
Whether  we  be  child  or  man,  we  are  none  of  us  the 
same,  afterwards. 

"  Davy,"  my  sister  pleaded,  "  were  your  poor  sis 
ter  now  t'  ask  you  t'  say  no  word " 

"  I  would  not  say  one  word ! "  I  broke  in.  "  Oh, 
I  would  not !  " 

That  was  the  end  of  it. 

Next  day  the  doctor  bade  me  walk  with  him  on 
the  Watchman,  so  that,  as  he  said,  he  might  without 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LOYE          241 

interruption  speak  a  word  with  me :  which  I  was 
loath  to  do ;  for  he  had  pulled  a  long  face  of  late, 
and  had  sighed  and  stared  more  than  was  good  for 
our  spirits,  nor  smiled  at  all,  save  in  a  way  of  the 
wryest,  and  was  now  so  grave — nay,  sunk  deep  in 
blear-eyed  melancholy — that  'twas  plain  no  happi 
ness  lay  in  prospect.  'Twas  sad  weather,  too — cold 
fog  in  the  air,  the  light  drear,  the  land  all  wet  and 
black,  the  sea  swishing  petulantly  in  the  mist.  I 
had  no  mind  to  climb  the  Watchman,  but  did, 
cheerily  as  I  could,  because  he  wished  it,  as  was  my 
habit. 

When  we  got  to  Beacon  Rock,  there  was  no  flush 
of  red  in  the  doctor's  cheeks,  as  ever  there  had  been, 
no  life  in  his  voice,  which  not  long  since  had  been 
buoyant ;  and  his  hand,  while  for  a  moment  it  rested 
affectionately  on  my  shoulder,  shook  in  a  way  that 
frightened  me. 

"  Leave  us  go  back ! "  I  begged.  "  I'm  not 
wantin'  t'  talk." 

I  wished  I  had  not  come :  for  there  was  in  all  this 
some  foreboding  of  wretchedness.  I  was  very  much 
afraid. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here,  Davy,"  he  began,  with 
grim  deliberation,  "  to  tell  you  something  about  my 
self.  I  do  not  find  it,"  with  a  shrug  and  a  wry 
mouth,  "  a  pleasant " 


242      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Come,  zur,"  I  broke  in,  this  not  at  all  to  my  lik 
ing,  "  leave  us  go  t'  the  Soldier's  Ear  ! " 

"  Not  an  agreeable  duty,"  he  pursued,  fixing  me 
with  dull  eyes,  "  for  me  to  speak  ;  nor  will  it  be,  I 
fancy,  for  you  to  hear.  But " 

This  exceeded  even  my  utmost  fears.  "  I  dare 
you,  zur,"  said  I,  desperate  for  a  way  of  escape,  "  t' 
dive  from  Nestin'  Ledge  this  cold  day  !  " 

He  smiled — but  'twas  half  a  sad  frown  ;  for  at 
once  he  puckered  his  forehead. 

"  You're  scared  !  "  I  taunted. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  do  come,  zur  !  " 

"  No,  Davy,"  said  he. 

I  sighed. 

"  For,"  he  added,  sighing,  too,  "  I  have  something 
to  tell  you,  which  must  now  be  told." 

Whatever  it  was — however  much  he  wished  it 
said  and  over  with — he  was  in  no  haste  to  begin. 
While,  for  a  long  time,  I  kicked  at  the  rock,  in  anx 
ious  expectation,  he  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  over 
his  knee,  staring  deep  into  the  drear  mist  at  sea — be 
yond  the  breakers,  past  the  stretch  of  black  and  rest 
less  water,  far,  far  into  the  gray  spaces,  which  held 
God  knows  what  changing  visions  for  him  !  I  stole 
glances  at  him — not  many,  for  then  I  c  ^red  not,  lest  I 
cry ;  and  I  fancied  that  his  disconsolate  musings  must 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LOYE          243 

be  of  London,  a  great  city,  which,  as  he  had  told  me 
many  times,  lay  infinitely  far  away  in  that  direction. 

"  Well,  Davy,  old  man,"  he  said,  at  last,  with  a 
quick  little  laugh,  "  hit  or  miss,  here  goes  ! " 

"  You  been  thinkin'  o'  London,"  I  ventured, 
hoping,  if  might  be,  for  a  moment  longer  to  distract 
him. 

"  But  not  with  longing,"  he  answered,  quickly. 
"  I  left  no  one  to  wish  me  back.  Not  one  heart  to 
want  me — not  one  to  wait  for  me !  And  I  do  not 
wish  myself  back.  I  was  a  dissipated  fellow  there, 
and  when  I  turned  my  back  on  that  old  life,  when  I 
set  out  to  find  a  place  where  I  might  atone  for  those 
old  sins,  'twas  without  regret,  and  'twas  for  good  and 
all.  This,"  he  said,  rising,  "  is  my  land.  This,"  he 
repeated,  glancing  north  and  south  over  the  dripping 
coast,  the  while  stretching  wide  his  arms,  "  is  now 
my  land !  I  love  it  for  the  opportunity  it  gave  me. 
I  love  it  for  the  new  man  it  has  made  me.  I  have 
forgotten  the  city.  I  love  this  life!  And  I  love 
you,  Davy,"  he  cried,  clapping  his  arm  around  me, 
"and  I  love " 

He  stopped. 

"  I  knows,  zur,"  said  I,  in  an  awed  whisper, 
"  whom  you  love." 

"  Bessie,"  said  he. 

"  Ay,  Bessie." 


244      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

There  was  now  no  turning  away.  My  recent 
fears  had  been  realized.  I  must  tell  him  what  was 
in  my  heart. 

"  Mary  Tot  says,  zur,"  I  gasped,  "  that  love  leads 
t'  hell." 

He  started  from  me. 

"  I  would  not  have  my  sister,"  I  continued,  "  go  t' 
hell.  For,  zur,"  said  I,  "  she'd  be  wonderful  lone 
some  there." 

"  To  hell  ?  "  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"  Oh,  ay  !  "  I  groaned.     "  T'  the  flames  o'  hell  ! " 

"  'Tis  not  true  !  "  he  burst  out,  with  a  radiant 
smile.  "  I  know  it !  Love — my  love  for  her — has  led 
me  nearer  heaven  than  ever  I  hoped  to  be  !  " 

I  troubled  no  more.  Here  was  a  holy  passion. 
Child  that  I  was — ignorant  of  love  and  knowing 
little  enough  of  evil — I  still  perceived  that  this  love 
was  surely  of  the  good  God  Himself.  I  feared  no 
more  for  my  dear  sister.  She  would  be  safe  with 
him. 

"  You  may  love  my  sister,"  said  I,  "  an  you  want 
to.  You  may  have  her." 

He  frowned  in  a  troubled  way. 

"  Ay,"  I  repeated,  convinced,  "  you  may  have  my 
dear  sister.  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  Davy,"  he  said,  now  so  grave  that  my  heart 
jumped,  "  you  give  her  to  the  man  I  am." 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LOYE          245 

"  I'm  not  carin',"  I  replied,  "  what  you  was." 

"  You  do  not  know." 

Apprehension  grappled  with  me.  "  I'm  not 
wantin'  t'  know,"  I  protested.  "  Come,  zur,"  I 
pleaded,  "  leave  us  go  home." 

"  Once,  Davy,"  he  said,  "  I  told  you  that  I  had 
been  wicked." 

"  You're  not  wicked  now." 

"  I  was." 

"  I'm  not  carin'  what  you  was.  Oh,  zur,"  I  cried, 
tugging  at  his  hand,  "  leave  us  go  home  ! " 

"  And,"  said  he,  "  a  moment  ago  I  told  you  that 
I  had  been  a  dissipated  fellow.  Do  you  know  what 
that  means  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  wantin  t'  know !" 

"  You  must  know." 

I  saw  the  peril  of  it  all.  "  Oh,  tell  me  not ! "  I 
begged.  "  Leave  us  go  home  !  " 

"  But  I  must  tell  you,  Davy,"  said  he,  beginning, 
now  in  an  agony  of  distress,  to  pace  the  hilltop. 
"  It  is  not  a  matter  of  to-day.  You  are  only  a  lad, 
now;  but  you  will  grow  up — and  learn — and  know. 
Oh,  God,"  he  whispered,  looking  up  to  the  frowning 
sky,  laying,  the  while,  his  hand  upon  my  head,  "  if 
only  we  could  continue  like  this  child !  If  only  we 
need  not  know !  I  want  you,  Davy,"  he  continued, 
once  more  addressing  me,  "  when  you  grow  up,  to 


246      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

know,  to  recall,  whatever  happens,  that  I  was  fair, 
fair  to  you  and  fair  to  her,  whom  you  love.  You 
are  not  like  other  lads.  It  is  your  place,  I  think,  in 
this  little  community,  that  makes  you  different.  You 
can  understand.  I  must  tell  you." 

"  I'm  scared  t'  know,"  I  gasped.  "  Take  my 
sister,  zur,  an"  say  no  more." 

"  Scared  to  know  ?  And  I  to  tell.  But  for  your 
sister's  sake — for  the  sake  of  her  happiness — I'll 
tell  you,  Davy — let  me  put  my  arm  around  you — ay, 
I'll  tell  you,  lad,  God  help  me !  what  it  means  to  be 
a  dissipated  fellow.  O  Christ,"  he  sighed,  "  I  pay 
for  all  I  did !  Merciful  God,  at  this  moment  I  pay 
the  utmost  price  !  Davy,  lad,"  drawing  me  closer, 
"  you  will  not  judge  me  harshly  ?  " 

"  I'll  hearken,"  I  answered,  hardening. 

Then,  frankly,  he  told  me  as  much,  I  fancy,  as  a 
man  may  tell  a  lad  of  such  things.  .  .  . 

In  horror — in  shame — ay,  in  shame  so  deep  I 
flushed  and  dared  not  look  at  him — I  flung  off  his 
arms.  And  I  sprang  away — desperately  fingering 
my  collar :  for  it  seemed  I  must  choke,  so  was  my 
throat  filled  with  indignation.  "  You  wicked  man  !  " 
I  cried.  "  You  kissed  my  sister.  You — you — 
kissed  my  sister !  " 

"  Davy ! " 


The  COURSE  of  'TRUE  LO^E          247 

"  You  wicked,  wicked  man !  " 

"  Don't,  Davy  !  " 

"  Go  'way  !  "  I  screamed. 

Rather,  he  came  towards  me,  opening  his  arms, 
beseeching  me.  But  I  was  hot-headed  and  willful, 
being  only  a  lad,  without  knowledge  of  sin  gained 
by  sinning,  and,  therefore,  having  no  compassion ; 
and,  still,  I  fell  away  from  him,  but  he  followed, 
continuing  to  beseech  me,  until,  at  last,  I  struck  him 
on  the  breast :  whereupon,  he  winced,  and  turned 
away.  Then,  in  a  flash — in  the  still,  illuminating 
instant  that  follows  a  blow  struck  in  blind  rage — I 
was  appalled  by  what  I  had  done ;  and  I  stood  stiff, 
my  hands  yet  clinched,  a  storm  of  sobs  on  the  point 
of  breaking :  hating  him  and  myself  and  all  the 
world,  because  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  us,  and 
the  wrong  I  had  done  him,  and  the  wrong  that  life 
had  worked  us  all. 

I  took  to  my  heels. 

"  Davy ! "  he  called. 

The  more  he  cried  after  me,  the  more  beseechingly 
his  voice  rang  in  my  ears,  the  more  my  heart  urged 
me  to  return — the  harder  I  ran. 

I  wish  I  had  not  struck  him  ...  I  wish,  I 
say,  I  had  not  struck  him  ...  I  wish  that  when 
he  came  towards  me,  with  his  arms  wide  open,  his 


248      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

grave,  gray  eyes  pleading — wretched  soul  that  he  was 
— I  wish  that  then  I  had  let  him  enfold  me.  What 
poor  cleverness,  what  a  poor  sacrifice,  it  would  have 
been !  'Twas  I — strange  it  may  have  been — but  still 
'twas  I,  Davy  Roth,  a  child,  Labrador  born  and  bred, 
to  whom  he  stretched  out  his  hand.  I  should  have 
blessed  God  that  to  this  remote  place  a  needful  man 
had  come.  'Twas  my  great  moment  of  opportunity. 
I  might — I  might — have  helped  him.  How  rare  the 
chance !  And  to  a  child  !  I  might  have  taken  his 
hand.  I  might  have  led  him  immediately  into  placid 
waters.  But  I  was  I — unfeeling,  like  all  lads : 
blind,  too,  reprehensible,  deserving  of  blame.  In  all 
my  life — and,  as  it  happens  (of  no  merit  of  my  own, 
but  of  his),  it  has  thus  far  been  spent  seeking  to  give 
help  and  comfort  to  such  as  need  it — never,  never,  in 
the  diligent  course  of  it,  has  an  opportunity  so  mo 
mentous  occurred.  I  wish — oh,  I  wish — he  might 
once  again  need  me  !  To  lads — and  to  men — and  to 
frivolous  maids — and  to  beggars  and  babies  and 
cripples  and  evil  persons — and  to  all  sorts  and  condi 
tions  of  human  kind !  Who  knows  to  whom  the 
stricken  soul — downcast  whether  of  sin  or  sorrow — 
may  appeal  ?  Herein  is  justification — the  very  key 
to  heaven,  with  which  one  may  unlock  the  door  and 
enter,  claiming  bliss  by  right,  defiant  of  God  Him 
self,  if  need  were :  "  I  have  sinned,  in  common  with 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LOYE  249 

all  men,  O  God,  but  I  have  sought  to  help  such  as 
were  in  sorrow,  whether  of  sin  or  the  misfortunes  in 
cident  to  life  in  the  pit  below,  which  is  the  world. 
You  dare  not  cast  me  out !  "  Oh,  men  and  women, 
lads  and  maids,  I  speak  because  of  the  wretchedness 
of  my  dear  folk,  out  of  their  sorrow,  which  is  com 
mon  to  us  all,  but  here,  in  this  barren  place,  is  unre 
lieved,  not  hidden.  Take  the  hand  stretched  out! 
And  watch :  lest  in  the  great  confusion  this  hand  ap 
pear — and  disappear.  If  there  be  sin,  here  it  is : 
that  the  hand  wavered,  beseeching,  within  reach  of 
such  as  were  on  solid  ground,  and  was  not  grasped. 

Ah,  well !  to  my  sister  I  ran ;  and  I  found  her 
placidly  sewing  in  the  broad  window  of  our  house, 
which  now  looked  out  upon  a  melancholy  prospect 
of  fog  and  black  water  and  vague  gray  hills.  Per 
ceiving  my  distress,  she  took  me  in  her  lap,  big  boy 
though  I  was,  and  rocked  me,  hushing  me,  the  while, 
until  I  should  command  my  grief  and  disclose  the 
cause  of  it. 

"  He's  a  sinful  man,"  I  sobbed,  at  last.  "  Oh,  dear 
Bessie,  care  no  more  for  him  !  " 

She  stopped  rocking — and  pressed  me  closer  to  her 
soft,  sweet  bosom — so  close  that  she  hurt  me,  as  my 
loving  mother  used  to  do.  And  when  I  looked  up — 
when,  taking  courage,  I  looked  into  her  face — I  found 


250      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

it  fearsomely  white  and  hopeless ;  and  when,  over 
come  by  this,  I  took  her  hand,  I  found  it  very 
cold. 

"  Not  sinful,"  she  whispered,  drawing  my  cheek 
close  to  hers.  "  Oh,  not  that !  " 

"  A  sinful,  wicked  person,"  I  repeated,  "  not  fit  t' 
speak  t'  such  as  you." 

"  What  have  he  done,  Davy  ?  " 

"  I'd  shame  t'  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  what  ?  " 

"  I  may  not  tell.  Hug  me  closer,  Bessie,  dear. 
I'm  in  woeful  want  o'  love." 

She  rocked  me,  then — smoothing  my  cheek — kiss 
ing  me — hoping  thus  to  still  my  grief.  A  long,  long 
time  she  coddled  me,  as  my  mother  might  have  done. 

"  Not  sinful,"  she  said. 

"  Ay,  a  wicked  fellow.  We  must  turn  un  out  o' 
here,  Bessie.  He've  no  place  here,  no  more.  He've 
sinned." 

She  kissed  me  on  the  lips.  Her  arms  tightened 
about  me.  And  there  we  sat — I  in  my  sister's  arms 
— hopeless  in  the  drear  light  of  that  day. 

"  I  love  him,"  she  said. 

"  Love  him  no  more  !  Bessie,  dear,  he've  sinned 
past  all  forgiving." 

Again — and  now  abruptly — she  stopped  rocking. 
She  sat  me  back  in  her  lap.  I  could  not  evade  her 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LO^E  251 

glance — sweet-souled,   confident,   content,   reflecting 
the  bright  light  of  heaven  itself. 

"  There's  no  sin,  Davy,"  she  solemnly  said,  "  that  a 
woman  can't  forgive." 

I  passed  that  afternoon  alone  on  the  hills — the  fog 
thickening,  the  wind  blowing  wet  and  cold,  the  whole 
world  cast  down — myself  seeking,  all  the  while,  some 
reasonable  way  of  return  to  the  doctor's  dear  friend 
ship.  I  did  not  know — but  now  I  know — that  rea 
son,  sour  and  implacable,  is  sadly  inadequate  to  our 
need  when  the  case  is  sore,  and,  indeed,  a  wretched 
staff,  at  best :  but  that  fine  impulse,  the  sure,  inner 
feeling,  which  is  faith,  is  ever  the  more  trustworthy, 
if  good  is  to  be  achieved,  for  it  is  forever  sanguine, 
nor,  in  all  the  course  of  life,  relentless.  But,  happily, 
Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy,  who,  in  my  childhood, 
came  often  opportunely  to  guide  me  with  his  wiser, 
strangely  accurate  philosophy,  now  sought  me  on 
the  hill,  being  informed,  as  it  appeared,  of  my  dis 
tress — and  because,  God  be  thanked!  he  loved 
me. 

"  Go  'way  !  "  I  complained. 

"  Go  'way  ?  "  cried  he,  indignantly.  "  I'll  not  go 
'way.  For  shame  !  To  send  me  from  you  !  " 

"  I'm  wantin'  t'  be  alone." 

"  Ay ;  but  'tis  unhealthy  for  you." 


252      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  I'm  thrivin'  well  enough." 

"  Hut ! "  said  he.  "  What's  this  atween  the  doctor 
an'  you  ?  You'd  cast  un  off  because  he've  sinned  ? 
Ecod !  I've  seldom  heard  the  like.  Who  is  you  ? 
Even  the  Lard  God  A'mighty  wouldn't  do  that. 
Sure,  He  loves  only  such  as  have  sinned.  Lad,"  he 
went  on,  now,  with  a  smile,  with  a  touch  of  his 
rough  old  hand,  compelling  my  confidence  and  affec 
tion,  "  what's  past  is  done  with.  Isn't  you  1'arned 
that  yet  ?  Old  sins  arc  as  if  they  never  had  been. 
Else  what  hope  is  there  for  us  poor  sons  of  men  ? 
The  weight  o'  sin  would  sink  us.  'Tis  not  the  dear 
Lard's  way  t'  deal  so  with  men.  To-day  is  not  yes 
terday.  What  was,  has  been ;  it  is  not.  A  man  is 
not  what  he  was — he  is  what  he  is.  But  yet,  lad — 
an'  'tis  wonderful  queer — to-day  is  yesterday.  'Tis 
made  by  yesterday.  The  mistake — the  sin — o'  yes 
terday  is  the  straight  course — the  righteous  deed — o' 
to-day.  'Tis  only  out  o'  sin  that  sweetness  is  born. 
That's  just  what  sin  is  for!  The  righteous,  Davy, 
dear,"  he  said,  in  all  sincerity,  "  are  not  lovable,  not 
trustworthy.  The  devil  nets  un  by  the  hundred 
quintal,  for  'tis  such  easy  fishin' ;  but  sinners — such 
as  sin  agin  their  will — the  Lard  loves  an'  gathers  in. 
They  who  sin  must  surfer,  Davy,  an'  only  such  as 
surfer  can  know  the  dear  Lard's  love.  God  be 
thanked  for  sin,"  he  said,  looking  up,  inspired.  "  Let 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LOYE  253 

the  righteous  be  damned — they  deserve  it.  Give  me 
the  company  o'  sinners  !  " 

"  Is  you  sure  ? "  I  asked,  confounded  by  this 
strange  doctrine. 

"  I  thank  God,"  he  answered,  composedly, "  that  / 
have  sinned — and  suffered." 

"  Sure,"  said  I,  "you  ought  t'  know,  for  you've 
lived  so  awful  long." 

"  They's  nothin'  like  sin,"  said  he,  with  a  sure 
smack  of  the  lips,  "  t'  make  good  men.  I  knows 
it." 

"An'  Bessie?" 

"  Oh,  Davy,  lad,  she  II  be  safe  with  him !  " 

Then  I,  too,  knew  it — knew  that  sin  had  been 
beneficently  decreed  by  God,  whose  wisdom  seems  so 
all-wise,  once  our  perverse  hearts  are  opened  to  per 
ceive — knew  that  my  dear  sister  would,  indeed,  be 
safe  with  this  sinner,  who  sorrowed,  also.  And  I 
was  ashamed  that  I  had  ever  doubted  it. 

"  Look  !  "  Skipper  Tommy  whispered. 

Far  off — across  the  harbour — near  lost  in  the  mist 
— I  saw  my  sister  and  the  doctor  walking  together. 

My  sister  was  waiting  for  me.     "  Davy,"  she  asked, 
anxiously,  "  where  have  you  been  ?  " 
"  On  the  hills,"  I  answered. 
For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  fingering  her  apron  ; 


254      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

and  then,  looking  fearlessly  into  my  eyes — "  I  love 
him,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  glad." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  continued,  clasping  her 
hands,  her  breast  heaving.  "  I  love  him — so  hard — 
I  cannot  tell  it." 

"  I'm  glad." 

"  An'  he  loves  me.  He  loves  me !  I'm  not 
doubtin'  that.  He  loves  me,"  she  whispered,  that 
holy  light  once  more  breaking  about  her,  in  which 
she  seemed  transfigured.  "  Oh,"  she  sighed,  beyond 
expression,  "  he  loves  me  !  " 

"  I'm  glad." 

"An'  I'm  content  t'  know  it — just  t'  know  that  he 
loves  me — just  t'  know  that  I  love  him.  His  hands 
and  eyes  and  arms !  I  ask  no  more — but  just  t' 
know  it.  Just  once  to  have — to  have  had  him — kiss 
me.  Just  once  to  have  lain  in  his  arms,  where,  for 
ever,  I  would  lie.  Oh,  I'm  glad,"  she  cried,  joyously, 
"  that  the  good  Lord  made  me !  I'm  glad — just  for 
that.  Just  because  he  kissed  me — just  because  I  love 
him,  who  loves  me.  I'm  glad  I  was  made  for  him 
to  love.  Tis  quite  enough  for  me.  I  want — only 
this  I  want — that  he  may  have  me — that,  body  and 
soul,  I  may  satisfy  his  love — so  much  I  love  him. 
Davy,"  she  faltered,  putting  her  hands  to  her  eyes, 
"  I  love — I  love — I  love  him ! " 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LO^E          255 

Ecod !  'Twas  too  much  for  me.  Half  scandal 
ized,  I  ran  away,  leaving  her  weeping  in  my  dear 
mother's  rocking-chair. 

My  sister  and  I  were  alone  at  table  that  evening. 
The  doctor  was  gone  in  the  punt  to  Jolly  Harbour, 
the  maids  said ;  but  why,  they  did  not  know,  for  he 
had  not  told  them — nor  could  we  guess :  for  'twas  a 
vexatious  distance,  wind  and  tide  what  they  were, 
nor  would  a  wise  man  undertake  it,  save  in  case  of 
dire  need,  which  did  not  then  exist,  the  folk  of  Jolly 
Harbour,  as  everybody  knows,  being  incorruptibly 
healthy.  But  I  would  not  go  to  sleep  that  night 
until  my  peace  was  made ;  and  though,  to  deceive 
my  sister,  I  went  to  bed,  I  kept  my  eyes  wide  open, 
waiting  for  the  doctor's  step  on  the  walk  and  on  the 
stair:  a  slow,  hopeless  footfall,  when,  late  in  the 
night,  I  heard  it. 

I  followed  him  to  his  room — with  much  contrite 
pleading  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue.  And  I  knocked 
timidly  on  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  Davy,"  said  he. 

My  heart  was  swelling  so — my  tongue  so  sadly  un 
manageable — that  I  could  do  nothing  but  whimper. 
But 

"  I'm  wonderful  sad,  zur,"  I  began,  after  a  time, 
"  t'  think  that  I " 


256      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  Hush  !  "  said  he. 

'Twas  all  I  said — not  for  lack  of  will  or  words,  but 
for  lack  of  breath  and  opportunity;  because  all  at 
once  (and  'twas  amazingly  sudden)  I  found  myself 
caught  off  my  feet,  and  so  closely,  so  carelessly, 
embraced,  that  I  thought  I  should  then  and  there 
be  smothered :  a  death  which,  as  I  had  been  led  to 
believe,  my  dear  sister  might  have  envied  me,  but 
was  not  at  all  to  my  liking.  And  when  I  got  my 
breath  'twas  but  to  waste  it  in  bawling.  But  never 
had  I  bawled  to  such  good  purpose:  for  every 
muffled  howl  and  gasp  brought  me  nearer  to  that 
state  of  serenity  from  which  I  had  that  day  cast 
myself  by  harsh  and  willful  conduct. 

Then — and  'twas  not  hard  to  do — I  offered  my 
supreme  propitiation :  which  was  now  no  more  a 
sacrifice,  but,  rather,  a  high  delight. 

"  You  may  have  my  sister,  zur,"  I  sobbed. 

He  laughed  a  little — laughed  an  odd  little  laugh, 
the  like  of  which  I  had  never  heard. 

"  You  may  have  her,"  I  repeated,  somewhat  impa 
tiently.  "  Isn't  you  hearin'  me  ?  I  give  her  to  you." 

"  This  is  very  kind,"  he  said.     "  But " 

"  You're  wantiri  her,  isn't  you  ? "  I  demanded, 
fearing  for  the  moment  that  he  had  meantime 
changed  his  mind. 

"  Yes,"  he  drawled ;  "  but " 


The  COURSE  of  TRUE  LO^E  257 

"  But  what?" 
"  She'll  not  have  me." 
"  Not  have  you  !  "  I  cried. 
"  No,"  said  he. 

At  that  moment  I  learned  much  wisdom  concern 
ing  the  mysterious  ways  of  women. 


XXIV 

The  BEGINNING  of  The  END 

FROM  this  sad  tangle  we  were  next  morning 
extricated  by  news  from  the  south  ports  of 
our  coast — news  so  ill  that  sentimental  tears 
and  wishes  were  of  a  sudden  forgot ;  being  this  :  that 
the  smallpox  had  come  to  Poor  Luck  Harbour  and 
was  there  virulently  raging.  By  noon  of  that  day  the 
doctor's  sloop  was  underway  with  a  fair  wind,  bound 
south  in  desperate  haste :  a  man's  heart  beating  glad 
aboard,  that  there  might  come  a  tragic  solution  of 
his  life's  entanglement.  My  sister  and  I,  sitting 
together  on  the  heads  of  Good  Promise,  high  in  the 
sunlight,  with  the  sea  spread  blue  and  rippling  below — 
we  two,  alone,  with  hands  clasped — watched  the  little 
patch  of  sail  flutter  on  its  way — silently  watched 
until  it  vanished  in  the  mist. 

"  I'm  not  knowin',"  my  sister  sighed,  still  staring 
out  to  sea,  "  what's  beyond  the  mist." 

«  Nor  I." 

'Twas  like  a  curtain,  veiling  some  dread  mystery, 
as  an  ancient  tragedy — but  new  to  us,  who  sat  wait 
ing  :  and  far  past  our  guessing. 

258 


The  BEGINNING  of  The  END          259 

"  I  wonder  what  we'll  see,  dear,"  she  whispered, 
"  when  the  mist  lifts." 

"  Tis  some  woeful  thing." 

She  leaned  forward,  staring,  breathing  deep,  seek 
ing  with  the  strange  gift  of  women  to  foresee  the 
event ;  but  she  sighed,  at  last,  and  gave  it  up. 

"  I'm  not  knowin',"  she  said. 

We  turned  homeward ;  and  thereafter — through 
the  months  of  that  summer — we  were  diligent  in 
business:  but  with  small  success,  for  Jagger  of 
Wayfarer's  Tickle,  seizing  the  poor  advantage  with 
great  glee,  now  foully  slandered  and  oppressed  us. 

Near  midsummer  our  coast  was  mightily  outraged 
by  the  sailings  of  the  Sink  or  Swim,  Jim  Tall,  master 
— Jagger's  new  schooner,  trading  our  ports  and  the 
harbours  of  the  Newfoundland  French  Shore,  with  a 
case  of  smallpox  in  the  forecastle.  We  were  all 
agog  over  it,  bitterly  angered,  every  one  of  us  ;  and 
by  day  we  kept  watch  from  the  heads  to  warn  her 
off,  and  by  night  we  saw  to  our  guns,  that  we  might 
instantly  deal  with  her,  should  she  so  much  as  poke 
her  prow  into  the  waters  of  our  harbour.  Once, 
being  on  the  Watchman  with  my  father's  glass,  I 
fancied  I  sighted  her,  far  off  shore,  beating  up  to 
Wayfarer's  Tickle  in  the  dusk :  but  could  not  make 
sure,  for  there  was  a  haze  abroad,  and  her  cut  was 


26o      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

not  yet  well  known  to  us.  Then  we  heard  no  more 
of  her,  until,  by  and  by,  the  skipper  of  the  Huskie 
Dog>  bound  north,  left  news  that  she  was  still  at  large 
to  the  south,  and  sang  us  a  rousing  song,  which,  he 
said,  had  been  made  by  young  Dannie  Crew  of  Rag 
ged  Harbour,  and  was  then  vastly  popular  with  the 
folk  of  the  places  below. 

"  Oh,  have  you  seed  the  skipper  o'  the  schooner  Sink  or  Swim  ? 

We'll  use  a  rope  what's  long  an'  strong,  when  we  cotches  him. 

He've  a  case  o'  smallpox  for'ard, 

An1  we'll  hang  un,  by  the  Lord ! 

For  he've  traded  every  fishin'  port  from  Conch  t'  Harbour  Rim. 

"  T1  save  the  folk  that  dreads  it, 

We'll  hang  the  man  that  spreads  it. 
They's  lakes  o'  fire  in  hell  t'  sail  for  such  as  Skipper  Jim  !  " 

My  sister,  sweet  maid !  being  then  in  failing 
health  and  spirits,  I  secretly  took  ship  with  the 
skipper  of  the  Bonnie  Betsy  Buttercup,  bound  south 
with  the  first  load  of  that  season :  this  that  I  might 
surely  fetch  the  doctor  to  my  sister's  help,  who  sorely 
needed  cheer  and  healing,  lest  she  die  like  a  thirsty 
flower,  as  my  heart  told  me.  And  I  found  the  doc 
tor  busy  with  the  plague  at  Bay  Saint  Billy,  himself 
quartered  aboard  the  Greased  Lightning,  a  fore-and- 
after  which  he  had  chartered  for  the  season :  to  whom 
I  lied  diligently  and  without  shame  concerning  my 
sister's  condition,  and  with  such  happy  effect  that  we 
put  to  sea  in  the  brewing  of  the  great  gale  of  that 


The  BEGINNING  of  The  END  261 

year,  with  our  topsail  and  tommy-dancer  spread  to  a 
sousing  breeze.  But  so  evil  a  turn  did  the  weather 
take — so  thick  and  wild — that  we  were  thrice  near 
driven  on  a  lee  shore,  and,  in  the  end,  were  glad 
enough  to  take  chance  shelter  behind  Saul's  Island, 
which  lies  close  to  the  mainland  near  the  Harbour- 
less  Shore.  There  we  lay  three  days,  with  all 
anchors  over  the  side,  waiting  in  comfortable  secu 
rity  for  the  gale  to  blow  out ;  and  'twas  at  dusk  of  the 
third  day  that  we  were  hailed  from  the  coast  rocks 
by  that  ill-starred  young  castaway  of  the  name  of 
Docks  whose  tale  precipitated  the  final  castastrophe 
in  the  life  of  Jagger  of  Wayfarer's  Tickle. 

He  was  only  a  lad,  but,  doubtless,  rated  a  man  ; 
and  he  was  now  sadly  woebegone — starved,  shiver 
ing,  bruised  by  the  rocks  and  breaking  water  from 
which  he  had  escaped.  We  got  him  into  the  cozy  fore 
castle,  clapped  him  on  the  back,  put  him  in  dry  duds  ; 
and,  then,  "  Come,  now,  lads  ! "  cried  Billy  Lisson,  the 
hearty  skipper  of  the  Greased  Lightning,  "  don't  you 
go  sayin'  a  word  'til  I  brew  you  a  cup  o'  tea.  On 
the  Harbourless  Shore,  says  you  ?  An'  all  hands 
lost  ?  Don't  you  say  a  word.  Not  one !  " 

The  castaway  turned  a  ghastly  face  towards  the 
skipper.  "  No,"  he  whispered,  in  a  gasp,  "  not  one." 

"  Not  you  ! "  Skipper  Billy  rattled.     "  You  keep 


262      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

mum.  Don't  you  so  much  as  mutter  'til  I  melts  that 
iceberg  in  your  belly." 

"  No,  sir." 

Perchance  to  forestall  some  perverse  attempt  at 
loquacity,  Skipper  Billy  lifted  his  voice  in  song — a 
large,  rasping  voice,  little  enough  acquainted  with 
melody,  but  expressing  the  worst  of  the  rage  of  those 
days  :  being  thus  quite  sufficient  to  the  occasion. 

"  Oh,  have  you  seed  the  skipper  o'  the  schooner  Sink  or  Swim  ? 

We'll  use  a  rope  what's  long  an'  strong,  when  we  cotches  him. 

He've  a  case  o'  smallpox  for'ard, 

An'  we'll  hang  un,  by  the  Lord  ! 

For  he've  traded  every  fishin'  port  from  Conch  t'  Harbour  Rim. 

"  T'  save  the  folk  that  dreads  it, 

We'll  hang  the  man  that  spreads  it. 
They's  lakes  o'  fire  in  hell  t'  sail  for  such  as  Skipper  Jim  I " 

"  Skipper  Billy,  sir,"  said  Docks,  hoarsely,  leaning 
into  the  light  of  the  forecastle  lamp,  "  does  you  say 
hang?  Was  they  goin'  t'  hang  Skipper  Jim  if  they 
cotched  him  ?  " 

"  Was  we  ?"  asked  Skipper  Billy.  "  By  God,"  he 
roared,  "  we  is  !  " 

"  My  God  !  "  Docks  whispered,  staring  deep  into  the 
skipper's  eyes,  "  they  was  goin' t'  hang  the  skipper  !  " 

There  was  not  so  much  as  the  drawing  of  a  breath 
then  to  be  heard  in  the  forecastle  of  the  Greased 
Lightning.  Only  the  wind,  blowing  in  the  night — 


The  BEGINNING  of  The  END  263 

and  the  water  lapping  at  the  prow — broke  the 
silence. 

"  Skipper  Billy,  sir,"  said  Docks,  his  voice  breaking 
to  a  whimper,  "  was  they  goin'  t'  hang  the  crew  ? 
They  wasn't,  was  they  ?  Not  goin'  t'  hang  un  ?  " 

"  Skipper  t'  cook,  lad,"  Skipper  Billy  answered,  the 
words  prompt  and  sure.  "  Hang  un  by  the  neck  'til 
they  was  dead." 

"  My  God ! "  Docks  whined.  "  They  was  goin'  t' 
hang  the  crew  ! " 

"  But  we  isn't  cotched  un  yet." 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  vacantly.  "  Nor  you  never 
will." 

The  skipper  hitched  close  to  the  table.  "  Lookee, 
lad,"  said  he,  leaning  over  until  his  face  was  close  to 
the  face  of  Docks,  "  was  you  ever  aboard  the  Sink  or 
Swim  f  " 

"  Ay,  sir,"  Docks  replied,  at  last,  brushing  his  hair 
from  his  brow.  "  I  was  clerk  aboard  the  Sink  or 
Swim  two  days  ago." 

For  a  time  Skipper  Billy  quietly  regarded  the  lad 
— the  while  scratching  his  beard  with  a  shaking  hand. 

"  Clerk,"   Docks  sighed,  "  two  days  ago." 

"  Oh,  was  you  ? "  the  skipper  asked.  "  Well, 
well !  "  His  lower  jaw  dropped.  "  An'  would  mind 
tellin'  us,"  he  continued,  his  voice  now  touched  with 
passion,  "  what's  come  o'  that  damned  craft  ?  " 


264      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  7 he  LABRADOR 

"  She  was  lost  on  the  Harbourless  Shore,  sir,  with 
all  hands — but  me." 

"  Thank  God  for  that ! " 

"  Ay,  thank  God !  " 

Wereupon  the  doctor  vaccinated  Docks. 


XXV 

A   CAPITAL   CRIME 

""W  T"OU  never  set  eyes  on  old  Skipper  Jim,  did 
j[  you,  Skipper  Billy  ? "  Docks  began,  later, 
•*•  that  night.  "  No  ?  Well,  he  was  a  wonder 
ful  hard  man.  They  says  the  devil  was  abroad  the 
night  of  his  bornin' ;  but  I'm  thinkin'  that  Jagger  o' 
Wayfarer's  Tickle  had  more  t'  do  with  the  life  he 
lived  than  ever  the  devil  could  manage.  'Twas  Jag 
ger  that  owned  the  Sink  or  Swim;  'twas  he  that 
laid  the  courses — ay,  that  laid  this  last  one,  too.  Be 
lieve  me,  sir,"  now  turning  to  Doctor  Luke,  who  had 
uttered  a  sharp  exclamation,  "  for  I  knowed  Jagger, 
an'  I  sailed  along  o'  Skipper  Jim.  '  Skipper  Jim,' 
says  I,  when  the  trick  we  played  was  scurvy,  '  this 
here  ain't  right.'  '  Right  ? '  says  he.  '  Jagger's 
gone  an'  laid  that  word  by  an'  forgot  where  he  put 
it.'  '  But  you,  Skipper  Jim,'  says  I,  'you ;  what 
you  doin'  this  here  for  ? '  '  Well,  Docks,'  says 
ne»  '  Jagger»'  says  he,  '  says  'tis  a  clever  thing  t'  do, 
an'  I'm  thinkin'/  says  he,  '  that  Jagger's  near  right. 
Anyhow,'  says  he,  <  Jagger's  my  owner.'  " 

265 


266      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Doctor  Luke  put  his  elbows  on  the  forecastle  table, 
his  chin  on  his  hands — and  thus  gazed,  immovable,  at 
young  Docks. 

"  Skipper  Jim,"  the  lad  went  on,  "  was  a  lank  old 
man,  with  a  beard  that  used  t'  put  me  in  mind  of  a 
dead  shrub  on  a  cliff.  Old,  an'  tall,  an'  skinny  he 
was ;  an'  the  flesh  of  his  face  was  sort  o'  wet  an' 
•whitish,  as  if  it  had  no  feelin'.  They  wasn't  a  thing 
in  the  way  o'  wind  or  sea  that  Skipper  Jim  was 
afeard  of.  I  like  a  brave  man  so  well  as  anybody 
does,  but  I  haven't  no  love  for  a  fool ;  an'  I've  seed 
him  beat  out  o'  safe  harbour,  with  all  canvas  set, 
when  other  schooners  was  reefed  down  an'  runnin' 
for  shelter.  Many  a  time  I've  took  my  trick  at  the 
wheel  when  the  most  I  hoped  for  was  three  minutes 
t'  say  my  prayers. 

" '  Skipper,  sir,'  we  used  t'  say,  when  'twas  lookin' 
black  an'  nasty  t'  win'ard  an'  we  was  wantin'  t'  run 
for  the  handiest  harbour,  '  'tis  like  you'll  be  holdin'  on 
for  Rocky  Cove.  Sure,  you've  no  call  t'  run  for 
harbour  from  this  here  blow  ! ' 

'"Stand  by  that  main-sheet  there!'  he'd  yell. 
'  Let  her  off  out  o'  the  wind.  We'll  be  makin'  for 
Harbour  Round  for  shelter.  Holdin'  on,  did  you 
say  ?  My  dear  man,  they's  a  whirlwind  brewin'  ! ' 

"  But  if  'twas  blowin'  hard — a  nor'east  snorter, 
with  the  gale  raisin'  a  wind-lop  on  the  swell,  an'  the 


A   CAPITAL   CRIME  267 

night  comin'  down — if  'twas  blowin'  barb'rous  hard, 
sometimes  we'd  get  scared. 

" '  Skipper,'  we  couldn't  help  sayin',  '  'tis  time  t' 
get  out  o'  this.     Leave  us  run  for  shelter,  man,  for ' 
our  lives ! ' 

" '  Steady,  there,  at  the  wheel ! '  he'd  sing  out. 
'  Keep  her  on  her  course.  'Tis  no  more  than  a  clever 
sailin'  breeze.' 

"  Believe  me,  sir,"  Docks  sighed,  "  they  wasn't  a 
port  Skipper  Jim  wouldn't  make,  whatever  the 
weather,  if  he  could  trade  a  dress  or  a  Bible  or  a 
what-not  for  a  quintal  o'  fish.  '  Docks,'  says  he, 

'  JaSSer»'  Sa7s  he>  '  wants  fish.  an>  I  got  t'  get  un.' 
So  it  wasn't  pleasant  sailin'  along  o'  him  in  the  fall  o' 
the  year,  when  the  wind  was  all  in  the  nor' east,  an' 
the  shore  was  a  lee  shore  every  night  o'  the  week. 
No,  sir  !  'twasn't  pleasant  sailin'  along  o'  Skipper  Jim 
in  the  Sink  or  Swim.  On  no  account,  'twasn't  pleas 
ant  !  Believe  me,  sir,  when  I  lets  my  heart  feel  again 
the  fears  o'  last  fall,  I  haven't  no  love  left  for  Jim. 
No,  sir !  doin'  what  he  done  this  summer,  I  haven't 
no  love  left  for  Jim. 

"  '  It's  fish  me  an'  Jagger  wants,  b'y,'  says  he  t'  me, 
'  an'  they's  no  one  '11  keep  un  from  us.' 

" '  Dear  man ! '  says  I,  pointin'  t'  the  scales, 
'  haven't  you  got  no  conscience  ?  ' 


268      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  '  Conscience  ! '  says  he.  '  What's  that  ?  Sure,' 
says  he, '  Jagger  never  heared  that  word  ! ' 

"  Well,  sir,  as  you  knows,  there's  been  a  wonderful 
cotch  o'  fish  on  the  Labrador  side  o'  the  Straits  this 
summer.  An'  when  Skipper  Jim  hears  a  Frenchman 
has  brought  the  smallpox  t'  Poor  Luck  Harbour,  we 
was  tradin1  the  French  shore  o'  Newfoundland. 
Then  he  up  an'  cusses  the  smallpox,  an'  says  he'll 
make  a  v'y'ge  of  it,  no  matter  what.  I'm  thinkin' 
'twas  all  the  fault  o'  the  cook,  the  skipper  bein'  the 
contrary  man  he  was ;  for  the  cook  he  says  he've 
signed  t'  cook  the  grub,  an'  he'll  cook  'til  he  drops  in 
his  tracks,  but  he  haven  t  signed  t'  take  the  smallpox, 
an'  he'll  be  jiggered  for  a  squid  afore  he'll  sail  t'  the 
Labrador.  '  Smallpox  !  '  says  the  skipper.  '  Who 
says  'tis  the  smallpox  ?  Me  an'  Jagger  says  'tis  the 
chicken-pox.'  So  the  cook — the  skipper  havin'  the 
eyes  he  had — says  he'll  sail  t'  the  Labrador  all  right, 
but  he'll  see  himself  hanged  for  a  mutineer  afore  he'll 
enter  Poor  Luck  Harbour.  '  Poor  Luck  Harbour, 
is  it?  '  says  the  skipper.  '  An'  is  that  where  they've 
the — the — smallpox  ?  '  says  he.  '  We'll  lay  a  course 
for  Poor  Luck  Harbour  the  morrow.  I'll  prove  'tis 
the  chicken-pox  or  eat  the  man  that  has  it.'  So  the 
cook — the  skipper  havin'  the  eyes  he  had — says  he 
ain't  afraid  o'  no  smallpox,  but  he  knows  what  '11 
come  of  it  if  the  crew  gets  ashore. 


A  CAPITAL  CRIME  269 

"  '  Ho,  ho !  cook,'  says  the  skipper.  '  You'll  go 
ashore  along  o'  me,  me  boy.' 

"  The  next  day  we  laid  a  course  for  Poor  Luck 
Harbour,  with  a  fair  wind  ;  an'  we  dropped  anchor  in 
the  cove  that  night.  In  the  mornin',  sure  enough, 
the  skipper  took  the  cook  an'  the  first  hand  ashore  t' 
show  un  a  man  with  the  chicken-pox ;  but  I  was 
kep'  aboard  takin'  in  fish,  for  such  was  the  evil  name 
the  place  had  along  o'  the  smallpox  that  we  was  the 
only  trader  in  the  harbour,  an'  had  all  the  fish  we 
could  handle. 

"  *  Skipper,'  says  I,  when  they  come  aboard, '  is  it 
the  smallpox  ? ' 

" '  Docks,  b'y,'  says  he,  lookin'  me  square  in  the 
eye, '  you  never  yet  heard  me  take  back  my  words. 
I  said  I'd  eat  the  man  that  had  it.  But  I  tells  you 
what,  b'y,  I  ain't  hankerin'  after  a  bite  o'  what  I 
seed ! ' 

" '  We'll  be  liftin'  anchor  an'  gettin'  t'  sea,  then/ 
says  I ;  for  it  made  me  shiver  t'  hear  the  skipper  talk 
that  way. 

" '  Docks,  b'y,'  says  he,  '  we'll  be  liftin'  anchor 
when  we  gets  all  the  fish  they  is.  Jagger,'  says  he, 
'  wants  fish,  an'  I'm  the  boy  t'  get  un.  When  the 
last  one's  weighed  an'  stowed,  we'll  lift  anchor  an' 
out ;  but  not  afore.' 

"  We  was  three  days  out  from  Poor  Luck  Harbour, 


270      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

tradin'  Kiddle  Tickle,  when  Tommy  Mib,  the  first 
hand,  took  a  suddent  chill.  '  Tommy,  b'y,'  says  the 
cook,  '  you  cotched  cold  stowin'  the  jib  in  the  squall 
day  afore  yesterday.  I'll  be  givin'  you  a  dose  o' 
pain-killer  an'  pepper.'  So  the  cook  give  Tommy  a 
wonderful  dose  o'  pain-killer  an'  pepper  an'  put  un  t' 
bed.  But  'twas  not  long  afore  Tommy  had  a  pain 
in  the  back  an1  a  burnin'  headache.  '  Tommy, 
b'y/  says  the  cook, '  you'll  be  gettin'  the  inflamma 
tion,  I'm  thinkin'.  I'll  have  t'  put  a  plaster  o'  mus 
tard  an'  red  pepper  on  your  chest.'  So  the  cook  put 
a  wonderful  large  plaster  o'  mustard  an'  red  pepper 
on  poor  Tommy's  chest,  an'  told  un  t'  lie  quiet. 
Then  Tommy  got  wonderful  sick — believe  me,  sir, 
wonderful  sick  !  An'  the  cook  could  do  no  more, 
good  cook  though  he  was. 

"  '  Tommy,'  says  he, '  you  got  something  I  don't 
know  nothin'  about.' 

"  'Twas  about  that  time  that  we  up  with  the  an 
chor  an'  run  t'  Hollow  Cove,  where  we  heard  they 
was  a  grand  cotch  o'  fish,  all  dry  an'  waitin'  for  the 
first  trader  t'  pick  it  up.  They'd  the  smallpox  there, 
sir,  accordin'  t'  rumour;  but  we  wasn't  afeard  o' 
cotchin'  it — thinkin'  we'd  not  cotched  it  at  Poor 
Luck  Harbour — an'  sailed  right  in  t'  do  the  tradin'. 
We  had  the  last  quintal  aboard  at  noon  o'  the  next 
day ;  an'  we  shook  out  the  canvas  an'  laid  a  course 


A   CAPITAL   CRIME  271 

t'  the  nor'ard,  with  a  fair,  light  wind.  We  was  well 
out  from  shore  when  the  skipper  an'  me  went  down 
t'  the  forecastle  t'  have  a  cup  o'  tea  with  the  cook ; 
an'  we  was  hard  at  it  when  Tommy  Mib  hung  his 
head  out  of  his  bunk. 

"  '  Skipper/  says  he,  in  a  sick  sort  o'  whisper, '  I'm 
took.' 

"  '  What's  took  you  ?  '  says  the  skipper. 

"  '  Skipper,'  says  he, '  I — I'm — took.' 

"  '  What's  took  you,  you  fool  ? '  says  the  skipper. 

"  Poor  Tommy  fell  back  in  his  bunk.  '  Skipper,' 
he  whines,  '  I've  cotched  it ! ' 

"  •  'Tis  the  smallpox,  sir,'  says  I.  '  I  seed  the 
spots.' 

"  '  No  such  nonsense  ! '  says  the  skipper.  '  'Tis 
the  measles.  That's  what  heve  got.  Jagger  an'  me 
says  so.' 

"  '  But  Jagger  ain't  here',  says  I. 

" '  Never  you  mind  about  that,'  says  he.  « I 
knows  what  Jagger  thinks.' 

"  When  we  put  into  Harbour  Grand  we  knowed 
it  wasn't  no  measles.  When  we  dropped  anchor 
there,  sir,  we  knowed  what  'twas.  Believe  me,  sir, 
we  knowed  what  'twas.  The  cook  he  up  an'  says  he 
ain't  afraid  o'  no  smallpox,  but  he'll  be  sunk  for  a 
coward  afore  he'll  go  down  the  forecastle  ladder  agin. 
An'  the  second  hand  he  says  he  likes  a  bunk  in  the 


272      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

forecastle  when  he  can  have  one  comfortable,  but 
he've  no  objection  t'  the  hold  at  times.  l  Then,  lads/ 
says  the  skipper, '  you'll  not  be  meanin'  t'  look  that 
way  agin/  says  he,  with  a  snaky  little  glitter  in  his 
eye.  '  An'  if  you  do,  you'll  find  a  fist  about  the  heft 
o'  that,'  says  he,  shakin'  his  hand,  '  t'  kiss  you  at  the 
foot  o'  the  ladder.'  After  that  the  cook  an'  the 
second  hand  slep'  in  the  hold,  an'  them  an'  me  had  a 
snack  o'  grub  at  odd  times  in  the  cabin,  where  I  had 
a  hammock  slung,  though  the  place  was  wonderful 
crowded  with  goods.  'Twas  the  skipper  that  looked 
after  Tommy  Mib.  Twas  the  skipper  that  sailed 
the  ship,  too, — drove  her  like  he'd  always  done :  all 
the  time  eatin'  an'  sleepin'  in  the  forecastle,  where 
poor  Tommy  Mib  lay  sick  o'  the  smallpox.  But  we 
o'  the  crew  kep'  our  distance  when  the  ol'  man  was 
on  deck ;  an'  they  was  no  rush  for'ard  t'  tend  the  jib 
an'  stays'l  when  it  was  '  Hard  a-lee ! '  in  a  beat  t' 
win'ard — no  rush  at  all.  Believe  me,  sir,  they  was  no 
rush  for'ard — with  Tommy  Mib  below. 

" '  Skipper  Jim/  says  I,  one  day,  '  what  is  you 
goin'  t'  do  ? ' 

"  '  Well,  Docks/  says  he, '  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  go  see 
Jagger.' 

"  So  we  beat  up  t'  Wayfarer's  Tickle — makin'  port 
in  the  dusk.  Skipper  Jim  went  ashore,  but  took 
nar  a  one  of  us  with  un.  He  was  there  a  wonderful 


A  CAPITAL  CRIME  273 

long  time  ;  an'  when  he  come  aboard,  he  orders  the 
anchor  up  an'  all  sail  made. 

" '  Where  you  goin'  ? '  says  I. 

" '  Tradin','  says  he. 

'"  Is  you?'  says  I. 

" '  Ay,'  says  he.  '  Jagger  says  'tis  a  wonderful 
season  for  fish.' " 

Docks  paused.  "  Skipper  Billy,"  he  said,  breaking 
off  the  narrative  and  fixing  the  impassive  skipper  of 
the  Greased  Lightning  with  an  anxious  eye,  "  did 
they  have  the  smallpox  at  Tops'l  Cove  ?  Come 
now ;  did  they  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sir,"  Skipper  Billy  replied ;  "  they  had  the 
smallpox  at  Tops'l  Cove." 

"  Dear  man !  "  Docks  repeated,  "  they  had  the 
smallpox  at  Tops'l  Cove  !  We  was  three  days  at 
Tops'l  Cove,  with  folk  aboard  every  day,  tradin'  fish. 
An'  Tommy  Mib  below !  We  touched  Smith's  Arm 
next,  sir.  Come  now,  speak  fair ;  did  they  have  it 
there  ?  " 

"  They're  not  rid  of  it  yet,"  said  Doctor  Luke. 

"  Smith's  Arm  too  !  "  Docks  groaned. 

"  An'  Harbour  Rim,"  the  skipper  added. 

"  Noon  t'  noon  at  Harbour  Rim,"  said  Docks. 

"  And  Highwater  Cove,"  the  doctor  put  in. 

"  Twenty  quintal  come  aboard  at  Highwater  Cove. 
I  mind  it  well." 


274      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  They  been  dyin'  like  flies  at  Seldom  Cove." 

"  Like  flies  ?  "  Docks  repeated,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"  Skipper  Billy,  sir,  who — who  died — like  that  ?  " 

Skipper  Billy  drew  his  hand  over  his  mouth. 
"  One  was  a  kid,"  he  said,  tugging  at  his  moustache. 

"  My  God ! "  Docks  muttered.  "  One  was  a 
kid ! " 

In  the  pause — in  the  silence  into  which  the  far-off, 
wailing  chorus  of  wind  and  sea  crept  unnoticed — 
Skipper  Billy  and  Docks  stared  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

"An'  a  kid  died,  too,"  said  the  skipper. 

Again  the  low,  wailing  chorus  of  wind  and  sea, 
creeping  into  the  silence.  I  saw  the  light  in  Skipper 
Billy's  eyes  sink  from  a  flare  to  a  glow ;  and  I  was 
glad  of  that. 

"  'Twas  a  cold,  wet  day,  with  the  wind  blowin'  in 
from  the  sea,  when  we  dropped  anchor  at  Little 
Harbour  Deep,"  Docks  continued.  "  We  always  kep' 
the  forecastle  closed  tight  an'  set  a  watch  when  we 
was  in  port ;  an'  the  forecastle  was  tight  enough  that 
day,  but  the  second  hand,  whose  watch  it  was,  had  t' 
help  with  the  fish,  for  'tis  a  poor  harbour  there,  an' 
we  was  in  haste  t'  get  out.  The  folk  was  loafin' 
about  the  deck,  fore  an'  aft,  waitin'  turns  t'  weigh 
fish  or  be  served  in  the  cabin.  An'  does  you  know 
what  happened  ? "  Docks  asked,  tensely.  "  Can't 


A   CAPITAL  CRIME  275 

you  see  how  'twas?  Believe  me,  sir,  'twas  a  cold, 
wet  day,  a  bitter  day  ;  an'  'tis  no  wonder  that  one  o' 
they  folk  went  below  t'  warm  hisself  at  the  forecastle 
stove — went  below,  where  poor  Tommy  Mib  was 
lyin'  sick.  Skipper,  sir,"  said  Docks,  with  wide  eyes, 
leaning  over  the  table  and  letting  his  voice  drop,  "  I 
seed  that  man  come  up — come  tumblin'  up  like  mad, 
sir,  his  face  so  white  as  paint.  He'd  seed  Tommy 
Mib !  An'  he  yelled,  sir ;  an1  Skipper  Jim  whirled 
about  when  he  heard  that  word,  an'  I  seed  his  lips 
draw  away  from  his  teeth. 

" '  Over  the  side,  every  man  o'  you  ! '  sings  he. 

"  But  'twas  not  the  skipper's  order — 'twas  that 
man's  horrid  cry  that  sent  un  over  the  side.  They 
tumbled  into  the  punts  and  pushed  off.  It  made  me 
shiver,  sir,  t'  see  the  fright  they  was  in. 

"  '  Stand  by  t'  get  out  o'  this ! '  says  the  skip 
per. 

"  'Twas  haul  on  this  an'  haul  on  that,  an'  'twas 
heave  away  with  the  anchor,  'til  we  was  well  under 
weigh  with  all  canvas  spread.  We  beat  out,  takin' 
wonderful  chances  in  the  tickle,  an'  stood  off  t'  the 
sou'east.  That  night,  when  we  was  well  off,  the  cook 
says  t'  me  that  he  thinks  he've  nerve  enough  t'  be 
boiled  in  his  own  pot  in  a  good  cause,  but  he've  no 
mind  t'  make  a  Fox's  martyr  of  hisself  for  the  likes 
o'  Skipper  Jim. 


276      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

" '  Cook/  says  I, '  we'll  leave  this  here  ship  at  the 
next  port.' 

"  '  Docks/  says  he, '  'tis  a  clever  thought.' 

"  'Twas  Skipper  Jim's  trick  at  the  wheel,  an*  I 
loafed  aft  t'  have  a  word  with  un — keepin'  well  t' 
win' ward  all  the  time ;  for  he'd  just  come  up  from 
the  forecastle. 

" '  Skipper  Jim/  says  I,  '  we're  found  out.' 

" '  What's  found  out  ?  '  says  he. 

"  '  The  case  o'  smallpox  for'ard/  says  I.  '  What 
you  goin'  t'  do  about  it  ?  ' 

" '  Do  ! '  says  he.  '  What'll  I  do  ?  Is  it  you, 
Docks,  that's  askin'  me  that?  Well/  says  he, '  Jag- 
ger  an'  me  fixed  that  all  up  when  I  seed  him  there  t' 
Wayfarer's  Tickle.  They's  three  ports  above  Har 
bour  Deep,  an'  I'm  goin'  t'  trade  un  all.  'Twill  be  a 
v'y'ge  by  that  time.  Then  I'm  goin'  t'  run  the  Sink 
or  Swim  back  o'  the  islands  in  Seal  Run.  Which 
done,  I'll  wait  for  Tommy  Mib  t'  make  up  his  mind, 
one  way  or  t'  other.  If  he  casts  loose,  I'll  wait,  de 
cent  as  you  like,  'til  he's  well  under  weigh,  when  I'll 
ballast  un  well  an'  heave  un  over.  If  he's  goin'  t' 
bide  a  spell  longer  in  this  world,  I'll  wait  'til  he's 
steady  on  his  pins.  But,  whatever,  go  or  stay,  I'll 
fit  the  schooner  with  a  foretopmast,  bark  her  canvas, 
paint  her  black,  call  her  the  Prodigal  Son,  an'  lay  a 
course  for  St.  Johns.  They's  not  a  man  on  the 


A  CAPITAL  CRIME  277 

docks  will  take  the  Prodigal  Son,  black  hull,  with 
topmast  fore  an'  aft  an'  barked  sails,  inbound  from 
the  West  Coast  with  a  cargo  o'  fish — not  a  man,  sir, 
will  take  the  Prodigal  Son  for  the  white,  single-top 
mast  schooner  Sink  or  Swim,  up  from  the  Labrador, 
reported  with  a  case  o'  smallpox  for'ard.  For,  look 
you,  b'y,'  says  he, '  nobody  knows  me  t'  St.  Johns.' 

"  '  Skipper  Jim,'  says  I, '  sure  you  isn't  goin'  t'  put 
this  fish  on  the  market ! ' 

"  '  Hut ! '  says  he.  '  Jagger  an'  me  is  worryin' 
about  the  price  o'  fish  already.' 

"  We  beat  about  offshore  for  three  days,  with  the 
skipper  laid  up  in  the  forecastle.  Now  what  do  you 
make  o'  that  ?  The  skipper  laid  up  in  the  forecastle 
along  o'  Tommy  Mib — an'  Tommy  took  the  way  he 
was  !  Come,  now,  what  do  you  make  o'  that  ? " 
We  shook  our  heads,  one  and  all ;  it  was  plain  that 
the  skipper,  too,  had  been  stricken.  "  Well,  sir," 
Docks  went  on,  "  when  Skipper  Jim  come  up  t'  give 
the  word  for  Rocky  Harbour,  he  looked  like  a  man 
risin'  from  the  dead.  '  Take  her  there,'  says  he, '  an' 
sing  out  t'  me  when  you're  runnin'  in.'  Then  down 
he  went  agin  ;  but,  whatever,  me  an'  the  cook  an' 
the  second  hand  was  willin'  enough  t'  sail  her  t' 
Rocky  Harbour  without  un,  for  'twas  in  our  minds  t' 
cut  an'  run  in  the  punt  when  the  anchor  was  down. 
«  A  scurvy  trick/  says  you, '  t'  leave  old  Skipper  Jim 


278      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

an'  Tommy  Mib  in  the  forecastle,  all  alone — an' 
Tommy  took  that  way  ?  '  A  scurvy  trick  !  "  cried 
Docks,  his  voice  aquiver.  "  Ay,  maybe  !  But  you 
ain't  been  aboard  no  smallpox-ship.  You  ain't  never 
knowed  what  'tis  t'  lie  in  your  bunk  in  the  dark  o' 
long  nights  shiverin'  for  fear  you'll  be  took  afore 
mornin'.  An*  maybe  you  hasn't  seed  a  man  took 
the  way  Tommy  Mib  was  took — not  took  quite  that 
way." 

"  Yes,  I  has,  b'y,"  said  Skipper  Billy,  quietly. 
"  'Twas  a  kid  that  I  seed." 

"  Was  it,  now  ?  "  Docks  whispered,  vacantly. 

"  A  kid  o'  ten  years,"  Skipper  Billy  replied. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Docks,  "  kids  dies  young. 
Whatever,"  he  went  on,  hurriedly,  "  the  old  man 
come  on  deck  when  he  was  slippin'  up  the  narrows  t' 
the  basin  at  Rocky  Harbour. 

"  '  Tis  the  last  port  I'll  trade,'  says  he, '  for  I'm 
sick,  an1  wantin'  t'  get  home.' 

"  We  was  well  up,  with  the  canvas  half  off  her, 
sailin'  easy,  on  the  lookout  for  a  berth,  when  a  punt 
put  out  from  a  stage  up  alongshore,  an'  come  down 
with  the  water  curlin'  from  her  bows. 

"  '  What's  the  meanin'  o'  that,  Docks  ?  '  sings  the 
skipper,  pointin'  t'  the  punt.  '  They're  goin'  out  o' 
the  course  t'  keep  t'  win'ard.' 

"  '  Skipper  Jim,'  says  I, '  they  knows  us.' 


A    CAPITAL   CRIME  279 

" '  Sink  us,'  says  he,  '  they  does  !  They  knows 
what  we  is  an'  what  we  got  for'ard.  Bring  her  to  ! ' 
he  sings  out  t'  the  man  at  the  wheel. 

"  When  we  had  the  schooner  up  in  the  wind,  the 
punt  was  bobbin'  in  the  lop  off  the  quarter. 

" '  What  ship's  that  ? '  says  the  man  in  the 
bow. 

"  '  Sink  or  Swim,'  says  the  skipper. 

"  '  You  get  out  o'  here,  curse  you  ! '  says  the  man. 
'  We  don't  want  you  here.  They's  news  o'  you  in 
every  port  o'  the  coast.' 

"  '  I'll  bide  here  'til  I'm  ready  t'  go,  sink  you  ! ' 
says  the  skipper. 

"  '  Oh,  no,  you  won't ! '  says  the  man.  '  I've  a 
gun  or  two  that  says  you'll  be  t'  sea  agin  in  half  an 
hour  if  the  wind  holds.' 

"  So  when  we  was  well  out  t'  sea  agin,  the  cook  he 
says  t'  me  that  he've  a  wonderful  fondness  for  a  run 
ashore  in  a  friendly  port,  but  he've  no  mind  t'  be 
shot  for  a  mad  dog.  '  An'  we  better  bide  aboard,' 
says  the  second  hand ;  '  for  'tis  like  we'll  be  took  for 
mad  dogs  wherever  we  tries  t'  land.'  Down  went 
the  skipper,  staggerin'  sick  ;  an'  they  wasn't  a  man 
among  us  would  put  a  head  in  the  forecastle  t'  ask 
for  orders.  So  we  beat  about  for  a  day  or  two  in 
a  foolish  way  ;  for,  look  you  !  havin'  in  mind  them 
Rocky  Harbour  rifles,  we  didn't  well  know  what  t' 


280      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

do.  Three  days  ago  it  blew  up  black  an'  frothy — a 
nor'east  switcher,  with  a  rippin'  wind  an'  a  sea  o' 
mountains.  'Twas  no  place  for  a  short-handed 
schooner.  Believe  me,  sir,  'twas  no  place  at  all ! 
'Twas  time  t'  run  for  harbour,  come  what  might ;  so 
we  asked  the  cook  t'  take  charge.  The  cook  says  t' 
me  that  he'd  rather  be  a  cook  than  a  skipper,  an'  a 
skipper  than  a  ship's  undertaker,  but  he've  no  objec 
tion  t'  turn  his  hand  t'  anything  t'  'blige  a  party  o' 
friends :  which  he'll  do,  says  he,  by  takin'  the 
schooner  t'  Broad  Cove  o'  the  Harbourless  Shore, 
which  is  a  bad  shelter  in  a  nor'east  gale,  says  he,  but 
the  best  he  can  manage. 

"  So  we  up  an'  laid  a  course  for  Broad  Cove ;  an' 
they  was  three  schooners  harboured  there  when  we 
run  in.  We  anchored  well  outside  o'  them;  an', 
sure,  we  thought  the  schooner  was  safe,  for  we 
knowed  she'd  ride  out  what  was  blowin',  if  it  took 
so  much  as  a  week  t'  blow  out.  But  it  blowed 
harder — harder  yet :  a  thick  wind,  squally,  too, 
blowin'  dead  on  shore,  where  the  breakers  was 
leapin'  half-way  up  the  cliff.  By  midnight  the 
seas  was  smotherin'  her,  fore  an'  aft,  an'  she  was 
tuggin'  at  her  bow  anchor  chain  like  a  fish  at  the 
line.  Lord !  many  a  time  I  thought  she'd  rip  her 
nose  off  when  a  hill  o'  suddy  water  come  atop  of  her 
with  a  thud  an'  a  hiss. 


A   CAPITAL  CRIME  281 

" '  She'll  go  ashore  on  them  boilin'  rocks/  says  the 
cook. 

"  We  was  sittin'  in  the  cabin — the  cook  an'  the 
second  hand  an'  me. 

" '  'Tis  wonderful  cold,'  says  the  second  hand. 

" « I'm  chillin,'  meself/  says  the  cook. 

" '  Chillin' ! '  thinks  I,  havin'  in  mind  the  way 
poor  Tommy  Mib  was  took.  '  Has  you  a  pain  in 
your  back  ?  '  says  I. 

"  They  was  shiverin'  a  wonderful  lot,  an'  the  cook 
was  holdin'  his  head  in  his  hands,  just  like  Tommy 
Mib  used  t'  do. 

"  '  Ay,  b'y,'  says  he. 

"  '  Ay,  b'y/  says  the  second  hand. 

" '  Been  drilled  too  hard  o'  late/  says  the  cook. 
'  We're  all  wore  out  along  o'  work  an'  worry.' 

"  I  didn't  wait  for  no  more.  '  H-m-m  ! '  says  I, 
'  I  thinks  I'll  take  a  look  outside.' 

"  It  was  dawn  then.  Lord  !  what  a  sulky  dawn  it 
was  !  All  gray,  an'  drivin'  like  mad.  The  seas  was 
rollin'  in,  with  a  frothy  wind-lop  atop  o'  them. 
They'd  lift  us,  smother  us,  drop  us,  toss  the  schooners 
ridin'  in  our  lee,  an'  go  t'  smash  on  the  big,  black 
rocks  ashore.  Lord !  how  they  pulled  at  the  old 
Sink  or  Swim  !  'Twas  like  as  if  they  wanted  her 
bad  for  what  she  done.  Seems  t'  me  the  Lord  God 
A'mighty  must  'a'  knowed  what  He  was  about. 


282      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Seems  to  me  the  Lord  God  A'mighty  said  t'  Hisself : 
'Skipper  Jim,'  says  He,  'I'm  through  usin'  you. 
I've  done  all  the  damage  I  want  done  along  o'  you. 
I've  sent  some  o'  the  wicked  t'  beds  they  chose  t' 
lie  on ;  an'  the  good  folk — all  the  good  folk  an' 
little  kids  I  couldn't  wait  no  longer  for,  I  loved  un  so 
—I've  took  up  here.  Ay,  Jim,'  says  the  Lord  God 
A'mighty, '  I'm  through  usin'  you ;  an'  I  got  t'  get 
rid  o'  the  old  Sink  or  Swim.  I'm  sorry  for  the  cook 
an'  the  second  hand  an'  poor  Tommy  Mib,'  says  He, 
'  wonderful  sorry  ;  but  I  can't  run  My  world  no  other 
way.  An'  when  you  comes  t'  think  it  over,'  says 
He, '  you'll  find  'tis  the  best  thing  that  could  happen 
t'  they,  for  they're  took  most  wonderful  bad.'  Oh 
ay,"  said  Docks,  with  a  gentle  smile,  "  the  Lord  God 
A'mighty  knowed  what  He  was  about. 

"  I  went  for'ard  t'  have  a  look  at  the  chain. 
Skipper  Jim  hisself  was  there,  watchin'  it  close. 

" '  She's  draggin','  says  he.  But  I  wouldn't  'a' 
knowed  that  voice  for  Skipper  Jim's — 'twas  so 
hollow  and  breathless.  '  She's  draggin','  says  he. 
'  Let  her  drag.  They's  a  better  anchorage  in  there  a 
bit.  She'll  take  the  bottom  agin  afore  she  strikes 
them  craft.' 

"  We  was  draggin'  fast — bearin'  straight  down  on 
the  craft  inside.  They  was  a  trader  an'  two  Labrador 
fishin'-craft.  The  handiest  was  a  fishin'-boat,  bound 


A   CAPITAL   CRIME  283 

home  with  the  summer's  cotch,  an'  crowded  with 
men,  women,  an'  kids.  We  took  the  bottom  an' 
held  fast  within  thirty  fathom  of  her  bow.  I  could 
see  the  folk  on  deck — see  un  plain  as  I  sees  you — 
hands  an'  lips  an'  eyes.  They  was  swarmin*  fore  an' 
aft  like  a  lot  o'  scared  seal — wavin'  their  arms, 
shakin'  their  fists,  jabberin',  leapin'  about  in  the 
wash  o'  the  seas  that  broke  over  the  bows. 

" '  Docks,'  says  the  skipper,  '  what's  the  matter 
with  they  folk,  anyhow  ?  We  isn't  draggin',  is  we  ? ' 
says  he,  half  cryin'.  '  We  isn't  hurtin'  they,  is  we  ? ' 

"  An  old  man — 'tis  like  he  was  skipper  o'  the 
craft — come  runnin'  for'ard,  with  half  a  dozen  young 
fellows  in  his  wake.  '  Sheer  off! '  sings  the  old  one. 
He  jabbered  a  bit  more,  all  the  while  wavin'  us  off, 
but  a  squall  o'  wind  carried  it  all  away.  '  We'll 
shoot  you  like  dogs  an  you  don't ! '  says  one  o'  the 
young  ones ;  an'  at  that  I  felt  wonderful  mean  an' 
wicked  an'  sorry.  Back  aft  they  went.  There  they 
talked  an'  talked ;  an'  as  they  talked  they  pointed — 
pointed  t'  the  breakers  that  was  boilin'  over  the 
black  rocks ;  pointed  t1  the  spumey  sea  an'  t'  the 
low,  ragged  clouds  drivin'  across  it ;  pointed  t'  the 
Sink  or  Swim.  Then  the  skipper  took  the  wheel, 
an'  the  crew  run  for'ard  t'  the  windlass  an'  jib  sheets. 

"  '  Skipper,  sir,'  says  I, '  they're  goin'  t'  slip  anchor 
an'  run ! ' 


284      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

"  '  Ay/  says  Skipper  Jim, '  they  knows  us,  b'y  ! 
They  knows  the  Sink  or  Swim.  We  lies  t'  win'ard, 
an'  they're  feared  o'  the  smallpox.  They'll  risk  that 
craft — women  an'  kids  an'  all — t'  get  away.  They 
isn't  a  craft  afloat  can  beat  t'  sea  in  this  here  gale. 
They'll  founder,  lad,  or  they'll  drive  on  the  rocks  an' 
loss  themselves,  all  hands.  'Tis  an  evil  day  for  this 
poor  old  schooner,  Docks,'  says  he,  with  a  sob, '  that 
men'll  risk  the  lives  o'  kids  an'  women  t1  get  away 
from  her ;  an'  'tis  an  evil  day  for  my  crew.'  With 
that  he  climbed  on  the  rail,  cotched  the  foremast 
shrouds  with  one  hand,  put  the  other  to  his  mouth, 
an'  sung  out :  '  Ahoy,  you  !  Bide  where  you  is  ! 
Bide  where  you  is  ! '  Then  he  jumped  down ;  an'  he 
says  t'  me,  'tween  gasps,  for  the  leap  an'  shout  had 
taken  all  the  breath  out  of  un, '  Docks,'  says  he, 
'  they's  only  one  thing  for  a  man  t'  do  in  a  case  like 
this.  Get  the  jib  up,  b'y.  I'm  goin'  aft  t'  the  wheel. 
Let  the  anchor  chain  run  out  when  you  sees  me  wave 
my  hand.  See,  lad,'  says  he,  pointin'  t'  leeward, 
'  they're  waitin',  aboard  that  fishin'  craft,  t'  see  what 
we'll  do.  We'll  show  un  that  we're  men !  Jagger 
be  damned,'  says  he ;  '  we'll  show  un  that  we're  men  ! 
Call  the  hands,'  says  he ;  '  but  leave  Tommy  Mib  lie 
quiet  in  his  bunk/  says  he, '  for  he's  dead.' 

"  «  Skipper  Jim/  says  I,  lookin'  in  his  blood-red 
eyes,  an'  then  t'  the  breakers, '  what  you  goin' t'  do  ? ' 


A  CAPITAL  CRIME  285 

"  '  Beach  her,'  says  he. 

"  '  Is  you  gone  an'  forgot,'  says  I, '  about  Jagger  ? ' 

" '  Never  you  mind  about  Jagger,  Docks,'  says  he. 
'  I'll  see  himl  says  he, '  later.  Call  the  hands,'  says 
he, '  an'  we'll  wreck  her  like  men ! ' ' 

Docks  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  Place  was 
once  more  given  to  the  noises  of  the  gale.  He 
looked  up. — broken,  listless  ;  possessed  again  by  the 
mood  of  that  time. 

"  An'  what  &d  you  say,  lad  ?"  Skipper  Billy  whis 
pered. 

"  I  hadn't  no  objection,"  sighed  the  lad. 

The  answer  was  sufficient. 

"  So  I  called  the  hands,"  Docks  went  on.  "  An' 
when  the  second  hand  cotched  sight  o'  the  rocks  we 
was  bound  for,  he  went  mad,  an'  tumbled  over  the 
taffrail ;  an'  the  cook  was  so  weak  a  lurch  o'  the  ship 
flung  him  after  the  second  hand  afore  we  reached  the 
breakers.  I  never  seed  Skipper  Jim  no  more ;  nor 
the  cook,  nor  the  second  hand,  nor  poor  Tommy 
Mib.  But  I'm  glad  the  Lord  God  A'mighty  give 
Jim  the  chance  t'  die  right,  though  he'd  lived  wrong. 
Oh,  ay !  I'm  fair  glad  the  good  Lord  done  that. 
The  Labradormen  give  us  a  cheer  when  the  chain 
went  rattlin'  over  an'  the  Sink  or  Swim  gathered  way 
— a  cheer,  sir,  that  beat  its  way  agin  the  wind — God 


286      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

bless  them ! — an'  made  me  feel  that  in  the  end  I  was 
a  man  agin.  She  went  t'  pieces  when  she  struck," 
he  added,  as  if  in  afterthought ;  "  but  I'm  something 
of  a  hand  at  swimmin',  an'  I  got  ashore  on  a  bit  o' 
spar.  An'  then  I  come  down  the  coast  'til  I  found 
you  lyin'  here  in  the  lee  o'  Saul's  Island."  After  a 
pause,  he  said  hoarsely,  to  Skipper  Billy :  "  They  had 
the  smallpox  at  Tops'l  Cove,  says  you  ?  They  got  it 
yet  at  Smith's  Arm  ?  At  Harbour  Rim  an'  High- 
water  Cove  they  been  dyin'  ?  How  did  they  die  at 
Seldom  Cove?  Like  flies,  says  you?  An'  one  was 
a  kid?" 

"  My  kid,"  said  Skipper  Billy,  quietly  still. 

"  My  God  ! "  cried  Docks.  "  His  kid  !  How  does 
that  there  song  go  ?  What  about  they  lakes  o'  fire  ? 
Wasn't  it, 

"  '  They's  lakes  o'  fire  in  hell  t'  sail  for  such  as  Skipper  Jim  ! ' 

you  sung  ?  Lord  !  sir,  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  have  t'  ship 
along  o1  Skipper  Jim  once  more  !  " 

"  No,  no,  lad  !  "  cried  Skipper  Billy,  speaking  from 
the  heart.  "  For  you  was  willin'  t'  die  right.  But 
God  help  Jagger  on  the  mornin'  o'  the  Judgment 
Day!  I'll  be  waitin'  at  the  foot  o'  the  throne  o' 
God  t'  charge  un  with  the  death  o'  my  wee  kid  !  " 

Doctor  Luke  sat  there  frowning. 


XXVI 
DECO YED 

DESPITE  Skipper  Billy's  anxious,  laughing  protest 
that  'twas  not  yet  fit  weather  to  be  at  sea,  the  doctor 
next  day  ordered  the  sail  set :  for,  as  he  said,  he  was 
all  of  a  maddening  itch  to  be  about  certain  business, 
of  a  professional  and  official  turn,  at  our  harbour  and 
Wayfarer's  Tickle,  and  could  no  longer  wait  the 
pleasure  of  a  damned  obstinate  nor'east  gale — a 
shocking  way  to  put  it,  indeed,  but  vastly  amusing 
when  uttered  with  a  fleeting  twinkle  of  the  eye : 
vastly  convincing,  too,  followed  by  a  snap  of  the 
teeth  and  the  gleam  of  some  high,  heroic  purpose. 
So  we  managed  to  get  the  able  little  Greased 
Lightning  into  the  thick  of  it — merrily  into  the 
howl  and  gray  frown  of  that  ill-minded  sea — and, 
though  wind  and  sea,  taking  themselves  seriously, 
conspired  to  smother  her,  we  made  jolly  reaches  to 
the  nor'ard,  albeit  under  double  reefs,  and  came  that 
night  to  Poor  Luck  Harbour,  where  the  doctor's  sloop 
was  waiting.  There  we  bade  good-bye  to  the  mood- 
stricken  Docks,  and  a  short  farewell  to  Skipper 
Billy,  who  must  return  into  the  service  of  the 

287 


288      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

Government  doctors  from  St.  Johns,  now,  at  last, 
active  in  the  smallpox  ports.  And  next  morning, 
the  wind  having  somewhat  abated  in  the  night,  the 
doctor  and  I  set  sail  for  our  harbour,  where,  two 
days  later,  with  the  gale  promising  to  renew  itself, 
we  dropped  anchor :  my  dear  sister,  who  had  kept 
watch  from  her  window,  now  waiting  on  my  father's 
wharf. 

It  seemed  to  me  then — and  with  utmost  conviction 
I  uttered  the  feeling  abroad,  the  while  perceiving  no 
public  amusement — that  the  powers  of  doctors  were 
fair  witchlikc  :  for  no  sooner  had  my  sweet  sister 
swallowed  the  first  draught  our  doctor  mixed — nay, 
no  sooner  had  it  been  offered  her  in  the  silver  spoon, 
and  by  the  doctor,  himself — than  her  soft  cheek 
turned  the  red  of  health,  and  her  dimples,  which  of 
late  had  been  expressionless,  invited  kisses  in  a 
fashion  the  most  compelling,  so  that  a  man  of  mere 
human  parts  would  swiftly  take  them,  though  he 
were  next  moment  hanged  for  it.  I  marvel,  indeed, 
that  Doctor  Luke  could  resist  them;  but  resist  he 
did  :  as  I  know,  for,  what  with  lurking  and  peeping 
(my  heart  being  anxiously  enlisted),  I  took  pains  to 
discover  the  fact,  and  was  in  no  slight  degree  dis 
tressed  by  it.  For  dimples  were  made  for  kissing — 
else  for  what  ? — and  should  never  go  unsatisfied  ; 


DECOYED  289 

they  are  so  frank  in  pleading  that  'twould  be  sheer 
outrage  for  the  lips  of  men  to  feel  no  mad  desire : 
which,  thank  God !  seldom  happens.  But,  then, 
what  concern  have  I,  in  these  days,  with  the  iden 
tical  follies  of  dimples  and  kissing  ? 

"  Tis  a  wonderful  clever  doctor,"  said  I  to  my 
sister,  my  glance  fixed  in  amazement  on  her  glowing 
cheeks,  "  that  we  got  in  Doctor  Luke." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  she  sighed  :  but  so  demure  that  'twas 
not  painful  to  hear  it. 

"  An',  ecod  !  "  I  declared,  "  'tis  a  wonderful  clever 
medicine  that  he've  been  givin'  you." 

"  Ecod !  Davy  Roth,"  she  mocked,  a  sad  little 
laugh  in  her  eyes,  "  an'  how,"  said  she,  "  did  you 
manage  to  find  it  out  ?  " 

"  Bessie  !  "  cried  I,  in  horror.  "  Do  you  stop  that 
swearin' !  For  an  you  don't,"  I  threatened,  "  I'll 
give  you " 

"  Hut ! "  she  flouted.     "  'Tis  your  own  word." 

"  Then,"  I  retorted,  "  I'll  never  say  it  again. 
Ecod  !  but  I  won't." 

She  pinched  my  cheek. 

"  An'  I'm  wonderin',"  I  sighed,  reverting  to  the 
original  train  of  thought,  which  was  ever  a  bother 
some  puzzle,  "  how  he  can  keep  from  kissin'  you 
when  he  puts  the  spoon  in  your  mouth.  Sure,"  said 
I,  "  he've  such  a  wonderful  good  chance  t'  do  it !  " 


290      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

It  may  have  been  what  I  said ;  it  may  have  been 
a  familiar  footfall  in  the  hall :  at  any  rate,  my  sister 
fled  in  great  confusion.  And,  pursuing  heartily,  I 
caught  her  in  her  room  before  she  closed  the  door, 
but  retreated  in  haste,  for  she  was  already  crying  on 
the  bed.  Whereupon,  I  gave  up  the  puzzle  of  love, 
once  and  for  all ;  and,  as  I  sought  the  windy  day,  I 
was  established  in  the  determination  by  a  glimpse  of 
the  doctor,  sitting  vacant  as  an  imbecile  in  the  room 
where  my  sister  and  I  had  been  :  whom  I  left  to  his 
own  tragedy,  myself  being  wearied  out  of  patience 
by  it. 

"  The  maid  that  turns  me  mad,"  was  my  benighted 
reflection,  as  I  climbed  the  Watchman  to  take  a 
look  at  the  weather,  "  will  be  a  wonderful  clever 
hand." 

Unhappily,  there  had  been  no  indictable  offense 
in  Jagger's  connection  with  the  horrid  crimes  of  the 
Sink  or  Swim  (as  the  doctor  said  with  a  wry  face) : 
for  Docks  would  be  but  a  poor  witness  in  a  court  of 
law  at  St.  Johns'  knowing  nothing  of  his  own 
knowledge,  but  only  by  hearsay ;  and  the  bones  of 
Skipper  Jim  already  lay  stripped  and  white  in  the 
waters  of  the  Harbourless  Shore.  But,  meantime, 
the  doctor  kept  watch  for  opportunity  to  send  frank 
warning  to  the  man  of  Wayfarer's  Tickle;  and, 


DECOYED  291 

soon,  chance  offered  by  way  of  the  schooner  Bound 
Down,  Skipper  Immerly  Swat,  whom  the  doctor 
charged,  with  a  grim  little  grin,  to  inform  the  evil 
fellow  that  he  was  to  be  put  in  jail,  out  of  hand, 
when  first  he  failed  to  walk  warily :  a  message  to 
which  Jagger  returned  (by  the  skipper  of  the  Never 
Say  Die)  an  answer  of  the  sauciest — so  saucy,  in 
deed,  that  the  doctor  did  not  repeat  it,  but  flushed 
and  kept  silent.  And  now  the  coast  knew  of  the 
open  war;  and  great  tales  came  to  us  of  Jagger's 
laughter  and  loose-mouthed  boasting — of  his  hate 
and  ridicule  and  defiant  cursing  :  so  that  the  doctor 
wisely  conceived  him  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  some 
cowardly  panic.  But  the  doctor  went  about  his 
usual  work,  healing  the  sick,  quietly  keeping  the 
helm  of  our  business,  as  though  nothing  had  oc 
curred  :  and  grimly  waited  for  the  inevitable  hour. 

Jonas  Jutt,  of  Topmast  Tickle,  with  whom  we  had 
passed  a  Christmas  Eve — the  father  of  Martha  and 
Jimmie  and  Sammy  Jutt — came  by  stealth  to  our 
harbour  to  speak  a  work  with  the  doctor.  "  Doctor 
Luke,"  said  he,  between  his  teeth,  "  I'm  this  year  in 
service  t'  Jagger  o'  Wayfarer's  Tickle ;  an'  I've 
heared  tell  o'  the  quarrel  atween  you ;  an'  .  .  ." 

"  Yes  ?  "  the  doctor  inquired. 

"  I've  took  sides." 

"  I    rather    think,"   the    doctor    observed,   "  that 


292      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

you  can  tell  me  something  I  very  much  want  to 
know." 

"  I've  no  wish,  God  knows  ! "  Jonas  continued, 
with  deep  feeling, "  t'  betray  my  master.  But  you — 
you,  zur — cured  my  child,  an'  I'm  wantin'  t'  do  you 
a  service." 

"  I  think  you  can." 

"  I  knows  I  can !  I  know — I  knows — that  which 
will  put  Jagger  t'  makin'  brooms  in  the  jail  t'  St. 
Johns." 

"  Ah  !  "  the  doctor  drawled.  "  I  wish,"  said  he, 
"  that  I  knew  that." 

"  I  knows,"  Jonas  pursued,  doggedly,  though  it 
went  against  the  grain,  "  that  last  week  he  wrecked 
the  Jessie  Dodd  on  the  Ragged  Edge  at  Wayfarer's 
Tickle.  I  knows  that  she  was  insured  for  her  value 
and  fifteen  hundred  quintal  o'  Labrador  fish.  I 
knows  that  they  wasn't  a  fish  aboard.  I  knows  that 
every  fish  is  safe  stowed  in  Jagger's  stores.  I  knows 
that  the  schooner  lies  near  afloat  at  high  tide.  I 
knows  that  she'll  go  t'  pieces  in  the  winter  gales.  I 
knows " 

The  doctor  lifted  his  hand.  He  was  broadly  smil 
ing.  "  You  have  told  me,"  said  he,  "  quite  enough. 
Go  back  to  Wayfarer's  Tickle.  Leave  me,"  he 
added, "  to  see  that  Jagger  learns  the  v,  <rthy  trade  of 
broom-making.  You  have  done  me — great  service." 


DECOYED  293 

"  Ah,  but,"  cried  Jonas,  gripping  the  doctor's 
hand,  "you  cured  my  little  Sammy ! " 

The  doctor  mused.  "  It  may  be  difficult,"  he  said, 
by  and  by,  "  to  fix  this  wreck  upon  Jagger." 

"  Hist ! "  Jonas  replied,  stepping  near.  "  The 
skipper  o'  the  Jessie  Dodd"  he  whispered,  pointedly, 
solemnly  closing  one  eye,  "  is  wonderful  weak  in  the 
knees." 

Doctor  and  I  went  then  in  the  sloop  to  Wayfarer's 
Tickle  (the  wind  favouring  us)  ;  and  there  we  found 
the  handsome  Jessie  Dodd  lying  bedraggled  and  dis 
consolate  on  the  Ragged  Edge,  within  the  harbour : 
slightly  listed,  but  afloat  aft,  and  swinging  with  the 
gentle  lift  and  fall  of  the  water.  We  boarded  her, 
sad  at  heart  that  a  craft  so  lovely  should  come  to  a 
pass  like  this  ;  and  'twas  at  once  plain  to  us  sailor- 
men  that  'twas  a  case  of  ugly  abandonment,  if  not  of 
barratry — plain,  indeed,  to  such  as  knew  the  man, 
that  in  conspiracy  with  the  skipper  Jagger  had 
caused  the  wreck  of  the  schooner,  counting  upon  the 
isolation  of  the  place,  the  lateness  of  the  season,  the 
simplicity  of  the  folk,  the  awe  in  which  they  held 
him — upon  all  this  to  conceal  the  crime  :  as  often 
happens  on  our  far-off  coast.  So  we  took  the  skip 
per  into  custody  (and  this  with  a  high  hand)  un 
known  to  Jagger — got  him,  soon,  safe  into  the  sloop  : 
so  cowed  and  undone  by  the  doctor's  manner  that  he 


294      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

miserably  whined  for  chance  to  turn  Queen's  evi 
dence  in  our  behalf.  'Twas  very  sad — nauseating, 
too  :  so  that  one  wished  to  stop  the  white,  writhing 
lips  with  a  hearty  buffet ;  for  rascals  should  be  strong, 
lest  their  pitiful  complaints  distress  the  hearts  of 
honest  men,  who  have  not  deserved  the  cruel  punish 
ment. 

Jagger  came  waddling  down  to  the  landing,  his 
great  dog  at  his  heels.  "  What  you  doinr,"  he  de 
manded,  scowling  like  a  thunder-storm,  "  with  that 
man  ?  " 

"  I  next  call  your  attention,"  the  doctor  answered, 
with  a  smile  of  the  most  engaging  sort,  like  a  show 
man  once  I  saw  in  the  South, "  to  the  most  \>e-witch- 
ing  exhibit  in  this  vast  concourse  of  wonders.  We 
have  here — don't  crowd,  if  you  please — we  have 
here  the  skipper  of  the  schooner  Jessie  Dodd,  cast 
away  on  the  Ragged  Edge  at  Wayfarer's  Tickle. 
He  is — and  I  direct  your  particular  attention  to  the 
astounding  fact — under  arrest ;  being  taken  by  a 
magistrate  duly  appointed  by  the  authorities  at  St. 
Johns.  Observe,  if  you  will,  his — ah — rather  abject 
condition.  Mark  his  penitent  air.  Conceive,  if  you 
can,  the — ah — ardour  with  which  he  will  betray  — 

Jagger  turned  on  his  heel — and  went  wearily 
away.  And  I  have  never  forgiven  the  doctor  his 
light  manner  upon  this  wretched  occasion :  for  it 


DECOYED  295 

seems  to  me  (but  I  am  not  sure  of  it)  that  rascals,  also, 
are  entitled  to  the  usual  courtesy.  At  any  rate,  in 
uttermost  despair  we  paid  for  the  lack  of  it. 

I  copy,  now,  from  the  deposition  of  Airworthy 
Grubb,  master  of  the  schooner  Jessie  Dodd,  Fal- 
mouth,  England,  as  taken  that  night  at  our  harbour  : 
"  TJic  'Jessie  Dodd1  was  chartered  by  Thomas  J ag 
ger,  doing  business  at  Wayfarer's  Tickle,  to  load  fish 
for  across.  .  .  .  I  do  hereby  make  a  voluntary 
statement,  with  my  own  free  will,  and  witliout  any 
inducement  whatever.  .  .  .  Thomas  Jagger  of 
fered  me,  if  I  %v oid d  put  the  'Jessie  Dodd'  ashore,  he 
would  give  me  half  the  profits  realized  on  ship  and 
cargo.  This  he  promised  me  on  a  Sunday  morning 
in  his  fish  stage  opposite  to  where  the  ship  was  put 
ashore.  After  the  ship  was  put  ashore  he  no  longer 
discussed  about  the  money  I  was  to  receive. 
Two  days  before  the  'Jessie  Dodd'  was  put  ashore  I 
broke  the  wheel  chain  and  tied  the  links  with  spun- 
yarn.  I  showed  the  broken  links  to  Mr.  Jagger. 
The  day  we  were  starting  there  was  rum  served  out  to 
the  creiu.  Mr.  Jagger  supplied  it.  When  the  vessel 
started,  nearly  all  the  crew  were  drunk.  I  had  the 
wheel.  About  five  minutes  after  she  started  I  cut  the 
spunyarn.  The  vessel  began  to  go  on  the  rocks.  One 
of  the  crew  shouted,  '  Hard- a- starboard !'  I  slioutcd 


296      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

that  the  port  wheel  chain  was  broken.  Then  the  ves 
sel  went  ashore.  .  .  .  Mr.  J agger  sent  a  kettle  of 
rum  aboard,  which  I  had  served  to  the  crew.  No  at 
tempt  was  made  to  get  the  vessel  off.  .  .  .  When 
I  saw  Mr.  Jagger  he  told  me  I  was  a  seven  kinds  of 
a  fool  for  putting  her  ashore  where  I  did.  He  said  it 
would  be  all  right,  anyhow.  He  said  they  were  all 
afraid  of  him.  He  said  no  one  would  give  it  away. 
.  .  .  I  am  guilty  of  putting  the  'Jessie  Dodd' 
ashore,  for  which  1  am  extremely  sorry  of  being 
Prompted  to  do  so  by  Thomas  Jagger,  and  to  be  so 
sadly  led  away  into  such  depravity.  Had  it  not  been 
for  such  an  irreproachable  character,  which  I  have 
held  previous  to  this  dreadful  act,  ten  minutes  after 
the  occurrence  I  would  have  given  myself  up.  Not 
one  hour  since  but  what  I  have  repented  bit 
terly.  ..."  I  present  this  that  the  doctor  may 
not  appear  unfairly  to  have  initiated  a  prosecution 
against  his  enemy  :  though  that  were  a  blessing  to 
our  coast. 

"  Davy,"  said  the  doctor,  briskily,  when  the  writ 
ing  was  done,  "  I  must  leave  Captain  Grubb  to  your 
hospitality  for  a  time.  It  will  be  necessary  for  me  to 
go  south  to  the  cable  station  at  Chateau.  The  sup 
port  of  Lloyds — since  Jagger  has  influence  at  St. 
Johns — will  be  invaluable  in  this  case." 

He  set  sail  in  the  sloop  next  day. 


DECOYED  297 

It  was  now  late  in  the  fall  of  the  year.  Young  slob 
ice  was  forming  by  night  in  the  quiet  places  of  the 
harbour.  The  shiver  of  winter  was  everywhere 
abroad.  .  .  .  For  a  week  the  weather  continued 
ominous — with  never  a  glint  of  sunshine  to  gladden 
us.  Drear  weather,  treacherous — promising  grief  and 
pain.  Off  shore,  the  schooners  of  the  great  fleet 
crept  by  day  to  the  s'uth'ard,  harbouring  by  night : 
taking  quick  advantage  of  the  variable  winds,  as 
chance  offered.  'Twas  thus  that  the  doctor  returned 
to  our  harbour ;  and  there  he  was  held,  from  day  to 
day,  by  vicious  winds,  which  the  little  sloop  could 
not  carry,  by  great,  black  seas,  which  she  could  not 
ride.  .  .  .  One  day,  being  ill  at  ease,  we  went  to 
the  Watchman,  that  we  might  descry  the  first  favour 
able  sign.  In  the  open,  the  wind  was  still  to  the  north 
of  east — but  wildly  capricious :  blowing  hither  and 
thither ;  falling,  too,  to  a  sigh,  rising,  all  at  once,  to  a 
roaring  gust,  which  tore  at  the  whisps  of  grass  and 
fairly  sucked  the  breath  from  one's  body.  Over 
head,  the  sky  was  low  and  tumultuous ;  great  banks 
of  black  cloud,  flecked  with  gray  and  white — 
ragged  masses — went  flying  inland,  as  in  a  panic. 
There  was  no  quiet  light  in  the  east,  no  clean  air 
between ;  'twas  everywhere  thick  —  everywhere 
sullen.  .  .  .  We  left  the  Watchman  downcast — • 
each,  too,  preoccupied.  In  my  heart  was  the 


298      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

heavy   feeling   that   some   sad   thing  was  about  to 
befall  us.     .     .     . 

I  must  tell,  now,  that,  before  the  smallpox  came  to 
Poor  Luck  Harbour,  the  doctor  had  chartered  the 
thirty-ton  Trap  and  Seine  for  our  business :  with 
which  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  and  the  twins,  with 
four  men  of  our  harbour,  had  subsequently  gone 
north  to  Kidalik,  where  the  fishing  was  reported 
good  beyond  dreams.  'Twas  time  for  the  schooner 
to  be  home.  She  was  long  overdue ;  and  in  great 
anxiety  we  awaited  her  return  or  news  of  her  misfor 
tune  :  the  like  of  which  often  happens  on  our  coast, 
where  news  proceeds  only  by  word  of  mouth. 
'Twas  in  part  in  hope  of  catching  sight  of  her  barked 
topsail  that  we  had  gone  to  the  Watchman.  But  at 
that  moment  the  Trap  and  Seine  lay  snug  at  anchor 
in  Wayfarer's  Tickle :  there  delayed  for  more  civil 
weather  in  which  to  attempt  the  passage  of  the  Bay, 
for  she  was  low  in  the  water  with  her  weight  of  fish, 
and  Skipper  Tommy  had  a  mind  to  preserve  his 
good  fortune  against  misadventure.  And,  next  day, 
the  wind  being  still  unfavourable,  he  had  Timmie 
row  him  ashore,  that  he  might  pass  an  hour  in  talk 
with  the  men  on  Jagger's  wharf:  for  there  was  noth 
ing  better  to  do,  and  the  wreck  of  the  Jessie  Dodd 
was  food  of  the  choicest  for  water-side  gossip.  To 


DECOYED  299 

him,  by  and  by,  came  Jagger's  clerk  :  begging  that 
the  Trap  and  Seine  might  be  got  under  weigh  for 
our  harbour  within  the  hour,  for  Jagger  lay  near 
death  (having  been  taken  in  the  night)  and  sorely 
needed  the  doctor,  lest  he  die. 

"  Die !  "  cried  Skipper  Tommy,  much  distressed. 
"  That's  fair  awful.  Poor  man !  So  sick  as 
that?" 

"  Ay,"  the  clerk  replied,  with  a  sharp  little  look 
into  Skipper  Tommy's  mild  eyes,  "  he'll  die." 

"  Ecod  !  "  the  skipper  declared.  "  'Twill  make  the 
doctor  sad  t'  know  it !  " 

Skipper  Tommy  remembers  that  the  clerk  turned 
away,  as  if,  for  some  strange  reason,  to  get  command 
of  himself. 

"  That  he  will,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  'Tis  awful !  "  the  skipper  repeated.  "  I'll  get  the 
schooner  t'  sea  this  minute.  She's  wonderful  low  in 
the  water,"  he  mused,  pulling  at  his  nose ;  "  but  I'm 
thinkin'  the  doctor  would  rather  save  a  life  than  get 
a  cargo  o'  green  fish  t'  harbour." 

"  Dying,  tell  him,"  the  clerk  urged,  smoothing  his 
mouth  with  a  lean  hand.  "  Dying — and  in  terror  of 
hell." 

"  Afeared  o'  hell  ?  " 

"  Gone  mad  with  fear  of  damnation." 

Skipper  Tommy  raised  his  hands.     "  That's  aw- 


300      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

ful ! "  he  muttered,  with  a  sad  shake  of  the  head. 
"  Tell  that  poor  man  the  doctor  will  come.  Tell  un, 
oh,  tell  un,"  he  added,  wringing  his  hands,  "  not  t'  be 
afeared  o'  hell ! " 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  the  clerk  exclaimed,  impatiently. 
"  Don't  forget  the  message.  Jagger  lies  sick,  and 
dying,  and  begging  for  help." 

Skipper  Tommy  made  haste  to  the  small  boat, 
the  while  raising  a  cry  for  Timmie,  who  had  gone 
about  his  own  pleasure,  the  Lord  knew  where ! 
And  Timmie  ran  down  the  path,  as  fast  as  his 
sea-boots  would  go:  but  was  intercepted  by  Jonas 
Jutt,  who  drew  him  into  the  lower  fish-stage,  as 
though  in  fear  of  observation,  and  there  whispered 
the  circumstances  of  the  departure  of  the  Trap  and 
Seine. 

"  But  do  you  tell  your  father,"  he  went  on,  "  that 
Jagger's  not  sick." 

"  Not  sick  ?  "  cried  Timmie,  under  his  breath. 

"  Tell  your  father  that  I  heared  Jagger  say  he'd 
prove  the  doctor  a  coward  or  drown  him." 

Timmie  laughed. 

"  Tell  un,"  Jonas  whispered,  speaking  in  haste  and 
great  excitement,  "  that  Jagger's  as  hearty  drunk  as 
ever  he  was — loaded  t'  the  gunwale  with  rum  an' 
hate — in  dread  o'  the  trade  o'  broom-makin' — des 
perate  t'  get  clear  o'  the  business  o'  the  Jessie  Dodd, 


DECOYED  301 

Tell  un  he  wants  t'  drown  the  doctor  atween  your 
harbour  an'  Wayfarer's  Tickle.  Tell  un  t'  give  no 
heed  t'  the  message.  Tell  un  t'  - 

"  Oh,  Lard ! "  Timmie  gurgled,  in  a  spasm  of  de 
light. 

"  Tell  un  t'  have  the  doctor  stay  at  home  'til  the 
weather  lifts.  Tell  un " 

In  response  to  an  urgent  call  from  the  skipper, 
who  was  waiting  at  the  small-boat,  Timmie  ran  out. 
As  he  stumbled  down  the  path,  emitting  guffaws  and 
delicious  chuckles,  he  conceived — most  unhappily 
for  us  all — an  infinitely  humorous  plan,  which  would 
still  give  him  the  delight  of  a  rough  passage  to  our 
harbour :  for  Timmie  loved  a  wet  deck  and  a  reeling 
beat  to  windward,  under  a  low,  driving  sky,  with  the 
night  coming  down,  as  few  lads  do.  Inform  the 
skipper  ?  Not  Timmie !  Nor  would  he  tell  even 
Jacky.  He  would  disclose  the  plot  at  a  more  dra 
matic  moment.  When  the  beat  was  over — when  the 
schooner  had  made  harbour — when  the  anchor  was 
down — when  the  message  was  delivered — in  the 
thick  of  the  outcry  of  protest  against  the  doctor's 
high  determination  to  venture  upon  the  errand  of 
mercy — then  Timmie  Lovejoy,  the  dramatic  oppor 
tunity  having  come,  would,  with  proper  regard  for 
his  own  importance,  make  the  astounding  revelation. 
It  would  be  quite  thrilling  (he  thought) ;  moreover, 


302      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

it  would  be  a  masterly  joke  on  his  father,  who  took 
vast  delight  in  such  things. 

"  The  wind's  veerin'  t'  the  s'uth'ard,"  said  the 
skipper,  anxiously,  while  they  put  a  double  reef  in 
the  mainsail.  "  'Twill  be  a  rough  time  across." 

"  Hut !  dad,"  Timmie  answered.  "  Sure,  you  can 
make  harbour." 

"  Ecod !  "  Jacky  added,  with  a  grin.  "  You're  the 
man  t'  do  it,  dad — you're  the  man  t'  drive  her  ! " 

"  Well,  lads,"  the  flattered  skipper  admitted,  rest 
ing  from  the  wrestle  with  the  obstinate  sail,  and  giv 
ing  his  nose  a  pleased  sort  of  tweak,  "  I  isn't  sayin' 
I'm  not." 

So,  low  as  she  was — sunk  with  the  load  in  her 
hold  and  the  gear  and  casks  and  what-not  on  her 
deck — they  took  the  Trap  and  Seine  into  the  gale. 
And  she  made  brave  weather  of  it — holding  her  own 
stoutly,  cheerily  shaking  the  frothy  water  from  her 
bows  :  though  'twas  an  unfair  task  to  put  her  to. 
Skipper  Tommy  put  the  first  hand  at  the  mainsail 
halliards,  the  second  hand  at  the  foresail,  with  orders 
to  cut  away  at  the  lift  of  his  hand,  lest  the  vessel  get 
on  her  beam's  ends  and  capsize.  'Twas  thus  that 
they  drove  her  into  the  wind — stout  hearts  and  stout 
timber:  no  wavering  or  weak  complaint,  whatever 
the  wind  and  sea.  But  night  caught  them  oF  our 
harbour — deep  night :  with  the  headlands  near  lost 


DECOYED  303 

in  the  black  sky ;  no  more  than  the  looming,  chang 
ing  shadow  of  the  hills  and  the  intermittent  flash  of 
breakers  to  guide  the  way.  They  were  now  beating 
along  shore,  close  to  Long  Cove  of  the  mainland, 
which  must  then  have  lain  placid  in  the  lee  of  Naked 
Point.  At  the  cry  of  "  Hard-a-lee  ! " — sung  out  in 
terror  when  the  breakers  were  fair  under  the  bow — 
the  ship  came  about  and  fell  off  towards  the  open 
sea.  Then  came  three  great  waves  ;  they  broke  over 
the  bow — swept  the  schooner,  stem  to  stern,  the 
deck  litter  going  off  in  a  rush  of  white  water.  The 
first  wrenched  Jacky  from  his  handhold ;  but  Skip 
per  Tommy,  standing  astern,  caught  him  by  the 
collar  as  the  lad  went  over  the  taffrail.  Came,  then, 
with  the  second  wave,  Timmie,  whom,  also,  the  skip 
per  caught.  But  'twas  beyond  the  old  man's  power 
to  lift  both  to  the  deck :  nor  could  he  cry  for  help, 
nor  choose  whom  to  drop,  loving  them  alike;  but 
desperately  clung  to  both  until  the  rush  of  the  third 
wave  tore  one  away. 
It  was  Timmie. 

Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy,  making  into  our  har 
bour,  by  way  of  the  Gate,  in  the  depths  of  that  wild 
night — poor  old  Skipper  Tommy,  blind  and  broken 
by  jrief — ran  his  loaded  schooner  into  the  Trap  and 
wrecked  her  on  the  Seven  Murderers,  where  she 


304      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

went  to  pieces  on  the  unfeeling  rocks.  But  we  man 
aged  to  get  the  crew  ashore,  and  no  man  lost  his  life 
at  that  time.  And  Skipper  Tommy,  sitting  bowed 
in  my  father's  house,  told  us  in  a  dull,  slow  way — 
made  tragic,  from  time  to  time,  by  the  sweet  light  in 
his  eye,  by  the  flitting  shadow  of  a  smile — told  us, 
thus,  that  Jagger  of  Wayfarer's  Tickle  lay  at  the 
point  of  death,  in  fear  of  hell,  crying  for  the  help  of 
his  enemy :  and  then  put  his  arm  about  Jacky,  and 
went  with  him  to  the  Rat  Hole,  there  to  bury  his 
sorrow,  that  it  might  not  distress  us  the  more,  who 
sorrowed,  also. 


XXVII 
The   DAY  of   The  DOG 

I  WAS  awakened  at  dawn.  'Twas  by  a  gentle 
touch  of  the  doctor's  hand.  "  Is  it  you,  zur  ? "  I 
asked,  starting  from  sad  dreams. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  whispered.     "  Tis  I,  Davy." 

I  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  gale — my  sleepy 
senses  immediately  aroused  by  the  noise  of  wind  and 
sleet.  The  gathered  rage  was  loosed,  at  last. 

"  'Tis  a  bitter  night,"  I  said. 

"  The  day  is  breaking." 

He  sat  down  beside  me,  gravely  silent;  and  he 
put  his  arm  around  me. 

"  You  isn't  goin'  ?  "  I  pleaded. 

"  Yes." 

I  had  grown  to  know  his  duty.  'Twas  all  plain  to 
me.  I  would  not  have  held  him  from  it,  lest  I 
come  to  love  him  less. 

"Ay,"  I  moaned,  gripping  his  hand,  "you're 
goin' !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

We  sat  for  a  moment  without  speaking.  The 
gale  went  whipping  past — driving  madly  through 

305 


jo6      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR. 

the  breaking  day :  a  great  rush  of  black,  angry 
weather.  'Twas  dim  in  the  room.  I  could  not 
see  his  face — but  felt  his  arm  warm  about  me  :  and 
wished  it  might  continue  there,  and  that  I  might  fall 
asleep,  serene  in  all  that  clamour,  sure  that  I  might 
find  it  there  on  waking,  or  seek  it  once  again,  when 
sore  need  came.  And  I  thought,  even  then,  that 
the  Lord  had  been  kind  to  us  :  in  that  this  man 
had  come  sweetly  into  our  poor  lives,  if  but  for  a 
time. 

"  You  isn't  goin'  alone,  is  you  ?  " 

"  No.  Skipper  Tommy  is  coming  to  sail  the 
sloop." 

Again — and  fearsomely — the  gale  intruded  upon 
us.  There  was  a  swish  of  wind,  rising  to  a  long, 
mad  shriek — the  roar  of  rain  on  the  roof — the  rattle 
of  windows — the  creaking  of  the  timbers  of  our 
house.  I  trembled  to  hear  it. 

"Oh,  doctor!"  I  moaned. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  said. 

The  squall  subsided.  Rain  fell  in  a  monotonous 
patter.  Light  crept  into  the  room. 

"  Davy ! " 

"  Ay,  zur  ?  " 

"  I'm  going,  now." 

"  Is  you  ?  " 

He  drew  me  very  close.     "  I've  come  to  say  good- 


The  DAY  of  The  DOG  307 

bye,"  he  said.  My  head  sank  in  great  misgiving 
against  him.  I  could  not  say  one  word.  "  And 
you  know,  lad/'  he  continued,  "  that  I  love  your 
sister.  Tell  her,  when  I  am  gone,  that  I  love  her. 
Tell  her " 

He  paused.  "  An'  what,  zur,"  I  asked,  "  shall  I 
tell  my  sister  for  you  ?  " 

"  Tell  her — that  I  love  her.  No ! "  he  cried. 
"  Tis  not  that.  Tell  her " 

"  Ay?" 

"  That  I  loved  her  !  " 

"  Hist ! "  I  whispered,  not  myself  disquieted  by 
this  significant  change  of  form.  "  She's  stirrin'  in 
her  room." 

It  may  be  that  the  doctor  loved  my  sister  through 
me — that  I  found  some  strange  place  in  his  great 
love  for  her,  to  which  I  had  no  title,  but  was  most 
glad  to  have.  For,  then,  in  the  sheltering  half-light, 
he  lifted  me  from  my  bed — crushed  me  against  his 
breast — held  me  there,  whispering  messages  I  could 
not  hear — and  gently  laid  me  down  again,  and  went 
in  haste  away.  And  I  dressed  in  haste :  but  fumbled 
at  all  the  buttons,  nor  could  quickly  lay  hands  on 
my  clothes,  which  were  scattered  everywhere,  by  my 
sad  habit ;  so  that,  at  last,  when  I  was  clad  for  the 
weather,  and  had  come  to  my  father's  wharf,  the 
sloop  was  cast  off.  Skipper  Tommy  sat  in  the  stern, 


308      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  the  LABRADOR 

his  face  grimly  set  towards  North  Tickle  and  the 
hungry  sea  beyond :  nor  did  he  turn  to  look  at  me. 
But  the  doctor  waved  his  hand — and  laughed  a  new 
farewell. 

I  did  not  go  to  the  hills — because  I  had  no  heart 
for  that  (and  had  no  wish  to  tell  my  sister  what 
might  be  seen  from  there):  but  sat  grieving  on  a 
big  box,  in  the  lee  of  the  shop,  drumming  a  melan 
choly  refrain  with  my  heels.  And  there  I  sat  while 
the  sad  light  of  day  spread  over  the  rocky  world ; 
and,  by  and  by,  the  men  came  out  of  the  cottages — 
and  they  went  to  the  hills  of  God's  Warning,  as  I 
knew  they  would — and  came  back  to  the  wharf  to 
gossip :  but  in  my  presence  were  silent  concerning 
what  they  had  seen  at  sea,  so  that,  when  I  went  up 
to  our  house,  I  did  not  know  what  the  sloop  was 
making  of  the  gale.  And  when  I  crossed  the 
threshold,  'twas  to  a  vast  surprise  :  for  my  breakfast 
was  set  on  a  narrow  corner  of  the  kitchen  table  (and 
had  turned  cold) ;  and  the  whole  house  was  in  an 
amazing  state  of  dust  and  litter  and  unseasonable 
confusion — the  rugs  lifted,  the  tables  and  chairs 
awry,  the  maids  wielding  brooms  with  utmost  vigour : 
a  comfortless  prospect,  indeed,  but  not  foreign  to  my 
sister's  way  at  troublous  times,  as  I  knew.  So  I 
ate  my  breakfast,  and  that  heartily  (being  a  boy) ; 


'The  DA  Y  of  The  DOG  309 

and  then  sought  my  sister,  whom  I  found  tenderly 
dusting  in  my  mother's  room. 

"  Tis  queer  weather,  Bessie,"  said  I,  in  gentle  re 
proof,  "  for  cleanin'  house." 

She  puckered  her  brow — a  sad  little  frown :  but 
sweet,  as  well,  for,  downcast  or  gay,  my  sister  could 
be  naught  else,  did  she  try  it. 

"  Is  you  thinkin'  so,  Davy  ?  "  she  asked,  pulling 
idly  at  her  dust-rag.  "  Ah,  well ! "  she  sighed. 

"  Why,"  I  exclaimed,  "  'tis  the  queerest  I  ever 
knowed ! " 

"  I  been  thinkin',"  she  mused,  "  that  I'd  get  the 
house  tidied  up — while  the  doctor's  away." 

"  Oh,  was  you  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  looking  up ;  "  for  he've  such  a 
wonderful  distaste  for  dust  an'  confusion.  An'  I'll 
have  the  house  all  in  order,"  she  added,  with  a  wan 
smile,  "  when  he  gets  back." 

'Tis  the  way  of  women  to  hope;  but  that  my 
clever  sister  should  thus  count  sure  that  which  lay  in 
grave  doubt — admitting  no  uncertainty — was  beyond 
my  understanding. 

"  Does  you  think,"  she  asked,  looking  away, "  that 
he  will  be  back  " — she  hesitated — "  the  morrow  ?  " 

I  did  not  deign  to  reply. 

"  May  be,"  she  muttered,  "  the  day  after." 

'Twas  hard  to  believe  it  of  her.     "  Bessie,"  I  be- 


310      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

gan,  ignoring  her  folly,  "  afore  the  doctor  went,  he 
left  a  message  for  you." 

Her  hands  went  swiftly  to  her  bosom.  "  For 
me  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  Ah,  tell  me,  Davy  ! " 

"  I'm  just  about  t'  tell,"  said  I,  testily.  "  But,  sure, 
'tis  nothin'  t'  put  you  in  a  state.  When  he  come  t' 
my  room,"  I  proceeded,  "  at  dawn,  t'  say  good-bye, 
he  left  a  message.  '  Tell  her,'  said  he, '  that  I  love 
her.'  " 

It  seemed  to  me,  then,  that  she  suffered — that  she 
felt  some  glorious  agony :  of  which,  as  I  thought, 
lads  could  know  nothing.  And  I  wondered  why. 

"  That  he  loves  me  !  "  she  murmured. 

"No,"  said  I.  '"Tell  her  not  that,'  said  he,"  I 
went  on.  " '  Tell  her  that  I  loved  her.'  " 

"  Not  that !  "  she  cried.  "  'Twas  that  he  loves  me 
— not  that  he  loved  me ! " 

"  'Twas  that  he  loved  you." 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  I  got  it  right." 

"  Ah,  then,"  she  cried,  in  despair,  "  he've  no  hope 
o'  comin'  back!  Oh,"  she  moaned,  clasping  her 
hands,  "  if  only  I  had  — 

But  she  sighed — and  turned  again  to  her  womanly 
task ;  and  I  left  her  tenderly  caring  for  my  mother's 
old  room.  And  when,  at  midday,  I  came  up  from 
the  wharf,  I  found  the  house  restored  to  order  and 


The  DAY  of  The  DOG  311 

quiet:  my  sister  sitting  composed  in  my  mother's 
place,  smiling  a  welcome  across  the  table,  as  my 
mother  used  to  do.  And  I  kissed  her — for  I  loved  her  ! 

It  blew  up  bitter  cold — the  wind  rising :  the  sea 
turned  white  with  froth.  'Twas  a  solemn  day — like 
a  sad  Sunday,  when  a  man  lies  dead  in  the  harbour. 
No  work  was  done — no  voice  was  lifted  boisterously 
— no  child  was  out  of  doors :  but  all  clung  peevishly 
to  their  mothers'  skirts.  The  men  on  the  wharf — 
speculating  in  low,  anxious  voices — with  darkened 
eyes  watched  the  tattered  sky :  the  rushing,  sombre 
clouds,  still  in  a  panic  fleeing  to  the  wilderness. 
They  said  the  sloop  would  not  outlive  the  gale. 
They  said  'twas  a  glorious  death  that  the  doctor  and 
Skipper  Thomas  Lovejoy  had  died ;  thus  to  depart 
in  the  high  endeavour  to  succour  an  enemy — but  shed 
no  tears :  for  'tis  not  the  way  of  our  folk  to  do  it. 
.  .  .  Rain  turned  to  sleet — sleet  to  black  fog. 
The  smell  of  winter  was  in  the  air.  There  was  a 
feeling  of  snow  abroad.  .  .  .  Then  came  the 
snow — warning  flakes,  driving  strangely  through  the 
mist,  where  no  snow  should  have  been.  Our  folk 
cowered — not  knowing  what  they  feared :  but 
by  instinct  perceiving  a  sudden  change  of  sea 
son,  for  which  they  were  not  ready;  and  were 
disquieted.  .  .  . 


312      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR. 

What  a  rush  of  feeling  and  things  done — what 
rage  and  impulsive  deeds — came  then  !  The  days 
are  not  remembered — but  lie  hid  in  a  mist,  as  I  write. 
.  .  .  Timmie  Lovejoy  crawled  into  our  harbour 
in  the  dusk  of  that  day :  having  gone  ashore  at  Long 
Cove  with  the  deck-litter  of  the  Trap  and  Seine ; 
which  surprised  us  not  at  all,  for  we  are  used  to  such 
things.  And  when  he  gave  us  the  message  (having 
now,  God  knows !  a  tragic  opportunity,  but  forget 
ting  that) — when  he  sobbed  that  J agger,  being  in 
sound  health,  would  prove  the  doctor  a  coward  or 
drown  him — we  determined  to  go  forthwith  by  the 
coast  rocks  to  Wayfarer's  Tickle  to  punish  Jagger  in 
some  way  for  the  thing  he  had  done.  And  when  I 
went  up  the  path  to  tell  my  poor  sister  of  the  villany 
practiced  upon  the  doctor,  designed  to  compass  his 
very  death — ah  !  'tis  dreadful  to  recall  it — when  I 
went  up  the  path,  my  mother's  last  prayer  pleading  in 
my  soul,  the  whitening  world  was  all  turned  red  ; 
and  my  wish  was  that,  some  day,  I  might  take  my 
enemy  by  the  throat,  whereat  I  would  tear  with  my 
naked  fingers,  until  my  hands  were  warm  with  blood. 
.  .  .  But  it  came  on  to  snow  ;  and  for  two  days 
and  nights  snow  fell,  the  wind  blowing  mightily  :  so 
that  no  man  could  well  move  from  his  own  house. 
And  when  the  wind  went  down,  and  the  day  dawned 
clear  again,  we  put  the  dogs  to  my  father's  komatik 


The  DAY  of  The  DOG  313 

and  set  out  for  Wayfarer's  Tickle :  whence  Jagger 
had  that  morning  fled,  as  Jonas  Jutt  told  us. 

"  Gone ! "  cried  Tom  Tot. 

"  T'  the  s'uth'ard  with  the  dogs.  He's  bound  t' 
the  Straits  Shore  t'  get  the  last  coastal  boat  t'  Bay  o' 
Islands." 

"  Gone  !  "  we  repeated,  blankly. 

"  Ay — but  ten  hours  gone.  In  mad  haste — alone 
— ill  provisioned — fleein'  in  terror.  .  .  .  He  sat 
on  the  hills — sat  there  like  an  old  crag — in  the  rain 
an'  wind — waitin'  for  the  doctor's  sloop.  '  There  she 
is,  Jutt ! '  says  he.  '  No/  says  I.  '  Thank  God. 
Jagger,  that's  a  schooner,  reefed  down  an'  runnin'  for 
harbour  !'...<  There  she  is  ! '  says  he.  4  No,' 
says  I.  '  Thank  God,  that's  the  same  schooner, 
makin'  heavy  weather  o'  the  gale !'...'  There 
she  is,  Jutt ! '  says  he.  '  Ay,'  says  I, '  God  help  her, 
that's  the  doctor's  sloop !  They've  wrecked  the 
Trap  an'  Seine!  .  .  .  An'  there  he  sat,  watchin', 
with  his  chin  on  his  hand,  'til  the  doctor's  sloop  went 
over,  an'  the  fog  drifted  over  the  sea  where  she  had 
been.  .  .  .  An'  then  he  went  home ;  an'  no  man 
seed  un  agin  'til  he  called  for  the  dogs.  An'  he 
went  away — in  haste — alone — like  a  man  gone 
mad.  .  .  ." 

The   lean-handed  clerk   broke   in.     He  was  blue 


3 M      DOCTOR.  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

about  the  lips — his  eyes  sunk  in  shadowy  pits — and 
he  was  shivering. 

"  '  Timmons,'  says  he  to  me,"  he  chattered,  "  «  I'm 
going  home.  I  done  wrong,'  says  he.  '  They'll  kill 
me  for  this.' " 

"  An'  when  he  got  the  dogs  in  the  traces,"  Jonas 
proceeded,  "  I  seed  he  wasn't  ready  for  no  long  jour 
ney.  '  Good  Lord,  Jagger,'  says  I, '  you  isn't  got  no 
grub  for  the  dogs  ! '  <  Dogs  ! '  says  he.  '  I'll  feed 
the  dogs  with  me  whip.'  '  Jagger,'  says  I, '  don't  you 
try  it.  They  won't  eat  a  whip.  They  can't  live  on 
it.'  '  Never  you  fear,'  says  he.  Til  feed  them  ugly 
brutes  when  they  gets  me  t'  Cape  Charles  Harbour.' 
«  Jagger/  says  I,  '  you  better  look  out  they  don't  feed 
theirselves  afore  they  gets  you  there.  You  got  a 
ugly  leader,'  says  I, '  in  that  red-eyed  brute.'  '  Him  ? ' 
says  he.  '  Oh,  I  got  him  broke ! '  But  he  didnt 
have " 

"And  with  that,"  said  the  clerk,  "  off  he  put." 

"  Men,"  cried  Tom  Tot,  looking  about  upon  our 
group,  "  we'll  cotch  un  yet ! " 

So  we  set  out  in  pursuit  of  Jagger  of  Wayfarer's 
Tickle,  who  had  fled  over  the  hills — I  laugh  to  think 
of  it — with  an  ugly,  red-eyed  leader,  to  be  fed  with  a 
whip  :  which  dog  I  knew.  .  .  .  No  snow  fell. 
The  days  were  clear — the  nights  moonlit.  Bitter 
cold  continued.  We  followed  a  plain  track — sleep- 


The  DAY  of  The  DOG  315 

ing  by  night  where  the  quarry  had  slept.  .  .  . 
Day  after  day  we  pushed  on :  with  no  mercy  on  the 
complaining  dogs — plunging  through  the  drifts, 
whipping  the  team  up  the  steeper  hills,  speeding 
when  the  going  lay  smooth  before  us.  ...  By 
and  by  we  drew  near.  Here  and  there  the  snow 
was  significantly  trampled.  There  were  signs  of 
confusion  and  cross  purposes.  The  man  was  desper 
ately  fighting  his  dogs.  .  .  .  One  night,  the 
dogs  were  strangely  restless — sniffing  the  air,  sleep 
less,  howling ;  nor  could  we  beat  them  to  their  beds 
in  the  snow  :  they  were  like  wolves.  And  next  day 
— being  then  two  hours  after  dawn — we  saw  before 
us  a  bloody  patch  of  snow :  whereupon  Tom  Tot 
cried  out  in  horror. 

"  Oh,  dear  God !  "  he  muttered,  turning  with  a 
gray  face.  "  They've  eat  him  up  !  " 

Then — forgetting  the  old  vow — he  laughed. 

.  .  .  And  this  was  true.  They  had  eaten  him 
up.  The  snow  was  all  trampled  and  gory.  They 
had  eaten  him  up.  Among  the  tatters  of  his  gar 
ments,  I  found  a  hand  ;  and  I  knew  that  hand  for  the 
hand  of  Jagger  of  Wayfarer's  Tickle.  .  .  .  They 
had  turned  wolves — they  had  eaten  him  up.  From 
far  off — the  crest  of  a  desolate  hill — there  came  a 
long  howl.  I  looked  towards  that  place.  A  great 


316      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

dog  appeared — and  fled.  I  wondered  if  the  dog  I 
knew  had  had  his  day.  I  wondered  if  the  first  grip 
had  been  upon  the  throat.  .  . 

When  we  came  again  to  our  harbour — came  close 
again  to  the  grief  we  had  in  rage  and  swift  action 
forgot — when,  from  the  inland  hills,  we  caught  sight 
of  the  basin  of  black  water,  and  the  cottages,  snug 
gled  by  the  white  waterside — we  were  amazed  to 
discover  a  schooner  lying  at  anchor  off  my  father's 
wharf:  the  wreck  of  a  craft,  her  topmast  hanging, 
her  cabin  stove  in,  her  jib-boom  broke  off  short. 
But  this  amazement — this  vast  astonishment — was 
poor  surprise  as  compared  with  the  shock  I  got  when 
I  entered  my  father's  house.  For,  there — new 
groomed  and  placid — sat  the  doctor ;  and  my  dear 
sister  was  close  to  him — oh,  so  joyfully  close  to  him 
— her  hand  in  his,  her  sweet  face  upturned  to  him 
and  smiling,  glowing  with  such  faith  and  love  as  men 
cannot  deserve  :  a  radiant,  holy  thing,  come  straight 
from  the  Heart  of  the  dear  God,  who  is  the  source 
of  Love. 

"  Oh  ! "  I  ejaculated,  stopping  dead  on  the  thresh 
old. 

"  Hello,  Davy  !  "  the  doctor  cried. 

I  fell  into  the  handiest  chair.  "  You  got  home,"  I 
observed,  in  a  gasp.  "  Didn't  you  ?  " 


The  DAY  of  The  DOG  317 

He  laughed. 

"  Sure,"  I  began,  vacantly,  "  an',  ecod ! "  I  ex 
claimed,  with  heat,  "  what  craft  picked  you  up  ?  " 

"The  Happy  Sally." 

"  Oh ! "  said  I.  'Twas  a  queer  situation.  There 
seemed  so  little  to  say.  "  Was  you  drove  far  ? " 
I  asked,  politely  seeking  to  fill  an  awkward 
gap. 

"  South  o'  Belle  Isle." 

«  Ah  ! " 

The  doctor  was  much  amused — my  sister  hardly 
less  so.  They  watched  me  with  laughing  eyes.  And 
they  heartlessly  abandoned  me  to  my  own  con 
versational  devices :  which  turned  me  desperate. 

"  Is  you  goin'  t'  get  married  ?  "  I  demanded. 

My  sister  blushed — and  gave  me  an  arch  glance 
from  behind  her  long,  dark  lashes.  But — 

"  We  are  not  without  hope,"  the  doctor  answered, 
calmly,  "  that  the  Bishop  will  be  on  our  coast  next 
summer." 

"  I'm  glad,"  I  observed,  "  that  you've  both  come  t' 
your  senses." 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  my  sister. 

"  Ecod  !  "  the  doctor  mocked. 

"  Ay,"  said  I,  with  a  wag.     "  I  is  that !  " 

The  doctor  spoke.  "  'Twas  your  sister,"  said  he, 
"  found  the  way.  She  discovered  a  word,"  he  con- 


318      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

tinued,  turning  tenderly  to  her,  his  voice  charged 
with  new  and  solemn  feeling,  "  that  I'd  forgot." 

"  A  word ! "  said  I,  amazed. 

"  Just,"  he  answered,  "  one  word." 

'Twas  mystifying.  "  An'  what  word,"  I  asked, 
"  might  that  word  be  ?  " 

"  '  Expiation,'  "  he  replied. 

I  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  that  word — nor  did 
I  care.  But  I  was  glad  that  my  dear  sister — whose 
cleverness  (and  spirit  of  sacrifice)  might  ever  be  de 
pended  upon — had  found  it :  since  it  had  led  to  a 
consummation  so  happy. 

"  Skipper  Tommy  saved?"  I  enquired. 

"  He's  with  the  twins  at  the  Rat  Hole." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  rising,  "  as  you're  both  busy,"  said 
I,  in  a  saucy  flash,  "  I'll  be  goin'— 

"  You'll  not !  "  roared  the  doctor.  And  he  leaped 
from  his  seat — bore  down  upon  me,  indeed,  like  a 
mad  hurricane  :  my  sister  laughing  and  clapping  her 
little  hands.  So  I  knew  I  must  escape  or  have  my 
bones  near  crack  under  the  pressure  of  his  affection  ; 
and  I  was  agile — and  eluded  him. 

I  found  Skipper  Tommy  and  the  twins  at  the  Rat 
Hole — the  skipper  established  in  comfort  by  the 
stove,  a  cup  of  tea  at  his  hand,  his  stockinged  feet 
put  up  to  warm :  the  twins  sitting  close,  both  grin- 


The   DAY  of  The  DOG  319 

ning  broadly,  each  finely  alert  to  anticipate  the  old 
man's  wants,  who  now  had  acquired  a  pampered  air, 
which  sat  curiously  upon  him.  "  Seems  t'  me, 
Davy,"  he  said,  in  a  solemn  whisper,  at  the  end  of 
the  tale,  new  told  for  me,  "  that  the  dear  Lard  took 
pity.  '  You  done  pretty  well,  Tommy,'  says  He,  '  t' 
put  out  t'  the  help  o'  Jagger  in  that  there  gale.  I'm 
thinkin'  I'll  have  t'  change  my  mind  about  you,' 
says  He.  '  The  twins,  Tommy,'  says  He,  '  is  well 
growed,  an'  able  lads,  both,  as  I  knowed  when  I 
started  out  t'  do  this  thing  ;  but  I'm  thinkin','  says 
He,  '  that  I'll  please  you,  Tommy,'  says  He,  '  by 
lettin'  you  live  a  little  longer  with  them  dear  lads.' 
Oh,"  the  skipper  concluded,  finding  goodness  in 
all  the  acts  of  the  Lord,  the  while  stretching  out 
his  rough  old  hand  to  touch  the  boys,  his  face 
aglow,  "  'twas  wonderful  kind  o'  Him  t'  let  me  see 
my  lads  again  !  " 

The  twins  heartily  grinned. 


XXVIII 
IN    HARBOUR 

WHEN  the  doctor  was  told  of  the  tragic 
end  of  Jagger  of  Wayfarer's  Tickle,  he 
shuddered,  and  sighed,  and  said  that  Jag 
ger  had  planned  a  noble  death  for  him :  but  said  no 
more ;  nor  has  he  since  spoken  the  name  of  that  bad 
man.  And  we  sent  the  master  of  the  Jessie  Dodd  to 
St.  Johns  by  the  last  mail-boat  of  that  season — and 
did  not  seek  to  punish  him :  because  he  had  lost  all 
that  he  had,  and  was  most  penitent;  and  because 
Jagger  was  dead,  and  had  died  the  death  that  he  did. 
.  .  .  The  last  of  the  doctor's  small  patrimony  re 
paired  the  damage  done  our  business  by  the  wreck 
of  the  Trap  and  Seine:  and  brought  true  my  old 
dream  of  an  established  trade,  done  with  honour  and 
profit  to  ourselves  and  the  folk  of  our  coast,  and  of 
seven  schooners,  of  which,  at  last,  the  twins  were 
made  masters  of  two.  .  .  .  And  that  winter  my 
sister  was  very  happy — ay,  as  happy  (though  'tis 
near  sin  to  say  it)  as  her  dear  self  deserved.  Sweet 
sister — star  of  my  life !  .  .  .  The  doctor,  too, 
was  happy ;  and  not  once  (and  many  a  cold  night  I 

320 


IN   HARBOUR  321 

shivered  in  my  meagre  night-gown  at  his  door  to 
discover  it) — not  once  did  he  suffer  the  old  agony  I 
had  known  him  to  bear.  And  when,  frankly,  I 
asked  him  why  this  was 

"  Love,  Davy,"  he  answered. 

"  Love  ?  "  said  I. 

"  And  labour." 

«  An'  labour?" 

«'  And  the  Gospel  according  to  Tommy." 

"  Sure,"  I  asked,  puzzled,  "  what's  that  ?  " 

"  Faith,"  he  answered. 

"  Tis  queer ! "  I  mused. 

"  Just  faith,"  he  repeated.  "  Just  faith  in  the  lov 
ing-kindness  of  the  dear  God.  Just  faith — with 
small  regard  for  creeds  and  forms." 

This  he  said  with  a  holy  twinkle. 

But  that  was  long  ago.  Since  then  I  have  been  to 
the  colleges  and  hospitals  of  the  South,  and  have 
come  back,  here,  in  great  joy,  to  live  my  life,  serving 
the  brave,  kind  folk,  who  are  mine  own  people, 
heartily  loved  by  me :  glad  that  I  am  Labrador  born 
and  bred — proud  of  the  brave  blood  in  my  great 
body,  of  the  stout  purpose  in  my  heart:  of  which 
(because  of  pity  for  all  inlanders  and  the  folk  of  the 
South)  I  may  not  with  propriety  boast.  Doctor 
Davy,  they  call  me,  now.  But  I  have  not  gone 


322      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

lacking.  I  am  not  without  realization  of  my  largest 
hope.  The  decks  are  often  wet — wet  and  white. 
They  heave  underfoot — and  are  wet  and  white — 
while  the  winds  come  rushing  from  the  gray  horizon. 
Ah,  I  love  the  sea — the  sweet,  wild  sea :  loveliest  in 
her  adorable  rage,  like  a  woman !  ...  And  my 
father's  house  is  now  enlarged,  and  is  an  hospital ; 
and  the  doctor's  sloop  is  now  grown  to  a  schooner, 
in  which  he  goes  about,  as  always,  doing  good. 
.  .  .  And  my  sister  waits  for  me  to  come  in  from 
the  sea,  in  pretty  fear  that  I  may  not  come  back  ; 
and  I  am  glad  that  she  waits,  sitting  in  my  mother's 
place,  as  my  mother  used  to  do. 

And  Skipper  Tommy  Lovejoy  this  day  lies  dy 
ing.  .  .  . 

I  sit,  a  man  grown,  in  my  mother's  room,  which 
now  is  mine.  It  is  spring-time.  To-day  I  found  a 
flower  on  the  Watchman.  Beyond  the  broad  win 
dow  of  her  room,  the  hills  of  Skull  Island  and  God's 
Warning  stand  yellow  in  the  sunshine,  rivulets  drip 
ping  from  the  ragged  patches  of  snow  which  yet 
linger  in  the  hollows  ;  and  the  harbour  water  ripples 
under  balmy,  fragrant  winds  from  the  wilderness ; 
and  workaday  voices,  strangely  unchanged  by  the 
years  that  are  passed,  come  drifting  up  the  hill  from 
my  father's  wharves ;  and,  ay,  indeed,  all  the  world 


IN   HARBOUR  323 

of  sea  and  land  is  warm  and  wakeful  and  light  of 
heart,  just  as  it  used  to  be,  when  I  was  a  lad,  and  my 
mother  lay  here  dying.  But  there  is  no  shadow  in 
the  house — no  mystery.  The  separate  sorrows  have 
long  since  fled.  My  mother's  gentle  spirit  here 
abides — just  as  it  used  to  do :  touching  my  poor  life 
with  holy  feeling,  with  fine  dreams,  with  tender  joy. 
There  is  no  shadow — no  mystery.  There  is  a  glory 
— but  neither  shadow  nor  mystery.  And  my  hand 
is  still  in  her  dear  hand — and  she  leads  me :  just  as 
she  used  to  do.  And  all  my  days  are  glorified — by 
her  who  said  good-bye  to  me,  but  has  not  left  me 
desolate. 

Skipper  Tommy  died  to-day.  'Twas  at  the  break 
of  dawn.  The  sea  lay  quiet;  the  sky  was  flushed 
with  young,  rosy  colour — all  the  hues  of  hope.  We 
lifted  him  on  the  pillows :  that  from  the  window  he 
might  watch — far  off  at  sea — the  light  chase  the 
shadows  from  the  world. 

"  A  new  day  !  "  he  whispered. 

Twas  ever  a  mystery  to  him.  That  there  should 
come  new  days — that  the  deeds  of  yesterday  should 
be  forgot  in  the  shadows  of  yesterday — that  as  the 
dawn  new  hope  should  come  unfailing,  clean,  be 
nignant. 

"  A  new  day  !  "  he  repeated,  turning  his  mild  old 


324      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

face  from  the  placid  sea,  a  wondering,  untroubled 
question  in  his  eyes. 

"  Ay,  zur — a  new  day." 

He  watched  the  light  grow — the  hopeful  tints 
spread  rejoicing  towards  the  higher  heavens. 

"  The  Lard,"  he  said,  "  give  me  work.  Blessed  be 
the  name  o'  the  Lard !  " 

All  the  world  was  waking. 

"  The  Lard  give  me  pain.  Blessed  be  the  name  o' 
the  Lard ! " 

And  a  breeze  came  with  the  dawn — a  rising  breeze, 
rippling  the  purple  sea. 

"  The  Lard  give  me  love,"  he  continued,  turning 
tenderly  to  the  stalwart  twins.  "  Blessed  be  the  name 
o'  the  Lard ! " 

The  wind  swept  calling  by — blue  winds,  fair  winds 
to  the  north :  calling  at  the  window,  all  the 
while. 

"  The  Lard  showed  Himself  t'  me.  Oh,  ay,  that 
He  did,"  he  added,  with  a  return  to  his  old  manner. 
" '  Skipper  Tommy,'  says  the  Lard,"  he  whispered, 
" '  Skipper  Tommy,'  says  He,  '  leave  you  an'  Me/ 
says  He,  4be  friends.  You'll  never  regret  it,  b'y,' 
says  He, '  an  you  make  friends  with  Me.'  Blessed," 
he  said,  his  last,  low  voice  tremulous  with  deep  grati 
tude,  "  oh,  blessed  be  the  name  o'  the  Lard  ! " 

The  wind  called  again — blithely  called  :  crying  at 


IN   HARBOUR  325 

the  window.  In  all  the  harbours  of  our  coast,  'twas 
time  to  put  to  sea. 

"  I  wisht,"  the  skipper  sighed,  "  that  I'd  been — a 
bit — wickeder.  The  wicked,"  he  took  pains  to  ex 
plain,  "  knows  the  dear  Lard's  love.  An',  somehow, 
I  isn't  fee/in'  it  as  I  should.  An'  I  wisht — I'd  sinned 
— a  wee  bit — more." 

Still  the  wind  called  to  him. 

"  Ecod ! "  he  cried,  impatiently,  his  hand  moving 
feebly  to  tweak  his  nose,  but  failing  by  the  way. 
"  There  I  been  an'  gone  an'  made  another  mistake ! 
Sure,  'tis  awful !  Will  you  tell  me,  Davy  Roth,  an 
you  can,"  he  demanded,  now  possessed  of  the  last 
nicker  of  strength,  "  how  I  could  be  wicked  without 
hurtin'  some  poor  man  ?  Ecod !  I'm  woeful  blind." 

He  dropped  my  hand — suddenly :  forgetting  me 
utterly.  His  hands  sought  the  twins — waving  help 
lessly:  and  were  caught.  Whereupon  the  father 
sighed  and  smiled. 

"  Dear  lads  !  "  he  whispered. 

The  sun  rose — a  burst  of  glory — and  struck  into 
the  room — and  blinded  the  old  eyes. 

"  I  wonder "  the  old  man  gasped,  looking  once 

more  to  the  glowing  sky.  "  I  wonder  .  .  ." 

Then  he  knew. 

How  unmomentous   is  the  death  we  die !    This 


326      DOCTOR  LUKE  of  The  LABRADOR 

passing — this  gentle  change  from  place  to  place! 
What  was  it  he  said  ?  "  Tis  but  like  vvakin"  from  a 
troubled  dream.  'Tis  like  wakin'  t'  the  sunlight  of  a 
new,  clear  day.  He  takes  our  hand.  «  The  day  is 
broke/  says  He.  '  Dream  no  more,  but  rise,  child  o' 
Mine,  an'  come  into  the  sunshine  with  Me.'  'Tis  only 
that  that's  comin'  t'  you — only  His  gentle  touch — an' 
the  waking.  Hush !  Don't  you  go  gettin'  scared. 
'Tis  a  lovely  thing — that's  comin'  t'  you  ! "  .  .  . 
And  I  fancy  that  the  dead  pity  the  living — that  they 
look  upon  us,  in  the  shadows  of  the  world,  and  pity 
us.  ...  And  I  know  that  my  mother  waits  for 
me  at  the  gate — that  her  arms  will  be  the  first  to  en 
fold  me,  her  lips  the  first  to  touch  my  cheek.  "  Davy, 
dear,  my  little  son,"  she  will  whisper  in  my  ear, 
"  aren't  you  glad  that  you,  too,  are  dead  ?  "  And  I 
shall  be  glad. 

Ha !  but  here's  a  cheery  little  gale  of  wind  blow 
ing  up  the  path.  'Tis  my  nephew — coming  from  my 
father's  wharf.  Davy,  they  call  him.  The  sturdy, 
curly-pated,  blue-eyed  lad — Labradorman,  every  lus 
cious  inch  of  him :  without  a  drop  of  weakling  blood 
in  his  stout  little  body !  There's  jolly  purpose  in  his 
stride — in  his  glance  at  my  window.  'Tis  a  walk  on 
the  Watchman,  I'll  be  bound  !  The  wind's  in  the 
west,  the  sun  unclouded,  the  sea  in  a  ripple.  The 


IN  HARBOUR  327 

day  invites  us.  Why  not  ?  The  day  does  not  know 
that  an  old  man  lies  dead.  .  .  .  He's  at  the  door. 
He  calls  my  name.  "  Uncle  Davy !  Hi,  b'y ! 
Where  is  you  ? "  Ecod !  but  the  Heavenly  choir 
will  never  thrill  me  so.  .  .  .  He's  on  the  stair.  I 
must  make  haste.  In  a  moment  his  arms  will  be 

round  my  neck.     And 

Here's   a   large  period  to  my  story !     The  little 
rascal  has  upset  my  bottle  of  ink  ! 


THE   END 


RALPH    CONNOR'S 

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